


Shrike

by QueenForADay



Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (but only for a second), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Frottage, Gentle Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Hitman Jaskier, Injury, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Mob Boss Geralt, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Possessive Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Sex, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Praise Kink, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Prostitute Jaskier | Dandelion, Shameless Smut, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Sugar Daddy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Lambert splays his hands. “Stay for an hour,” he repeats, “and if you hate it as much as you think you’re going to, then you can leave.""Lambert slaps a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. He leans over, lowering his voice. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t look so fucking grumpy all of the time,” he lulls, only sitting back when the bar comes into view. Geralt tries not to roll his eyes. Of course. Of course he would bring him here.--Mob Boss Geralt is brought to the Rosemary and Thyme Bar, where he meets with an alluring Jaskier; who has a new work proposition.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092515
Comments: 174
Kudos: 709
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, he should have just punched Lambert in the jaw and left it at that.

But here he is, in the back of his own car, heading towards downtown. Gods only know what time it is, but Geralt’s eyes are already starting to sting. A tight pain runs up the side of his face. He’s clenching his jaw again. There isn’t a moment where he isn’t. But after catching himself going it, he manages to flex his jaw and wring the pain out.

The red-haired man laughs, mostly to himself. He’s sitting in the back of the car with him, letting Coën do all the driving. He can only assume the other man didn’t have much of a say in it, with how grimly he’s glaring back at Lambert stretched out along the backseat. “You work too much,” he lilts, looking out on to the changing cityscape.

Gods alive, he hates downtown. It’s busy and bright and desperately loud, assaulting every sense that he has. Work might lure him down here every so often, but that’s why he has Lambert and Eskel and Coën. If he can send them in place of him, then good. They’ll go. But more often than not, people want to meet the White Wolf personally. Even if it’s the last meeting with him they’ll ever have.

It’s not that he works too much. It’s that there is so much work to do. Vesemir _retired_ and overnight Geralt found himself in charge of all of this. People underneath him who know who he is, knows that the Old Wolf raised him personally to take over. But he still watches those with uncertain eyes. Whispers of a coup have been brushing his ears ever since Vesemir fucked off to the countryside and left the title of boss to him. An argument could be made that they had talked about it. Vesemir was getting greyer, and young bucks were popping up all around the boroughs, crowing and fighting amongst themselves. It was only a matter of time before they ran their antlers through the Old Wolf and took over.

Best to get someone like Geralt in before any of that unpleasantness started. The White Wolf may have been a shy pup, quiet and always keeping to himself, but he could level anyone with a stare, enough to knock them over and have them scampering from the offices. Eskel, gods bless him, is too kind-hearted. Lambert is too much of a prick. Geralt has the perfect temperament; but is easy to anger.

And he can feel that very anger starting to bubble up now, just as downtown’s bright and irritating neon lights stream in through the dimmed windows of the car.

“Stay for an hour,” Lambert reasons, tilting his head to the side. His brother might be a prick and a degenerate, but he knows how to look at the elder in a certain way to get him pliant enough to do whatever he asks. That’s how he got Geralt to fight all of his battles for him when they were boys. Lambert was often the one to get them into trouble, and Geralt got them out. That’s how it worked. And then there was Eskel, wearing an ever-suffering expression on his face wondering why in the name of all of the gods their father put Geralt in charge in the first place.

Lambert splays his hands. “Stay for an hour,” he repeats, “and if you hate it as much as you think you’re going to, then you can leave. I’m sure Coën would drop you back home if you asked. Isn’t that right, Coën?”

There’s an illegible huff from the front of the car. Coën keeps his glowering eyes on the road, muttering something or other under his breath.

It isn’t directed at Geralt, that’s all he knows. So he allows it. If Coën had his way, he would be home in bed too. Geralt’s ache bleeds for them both.

Lambert slaps a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. He leans over, lowering his voice. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t look so fucking grumpy all of the time,” he lulls, only sitting back when the bar comes into view. Geralt tries not to roll his eyes. _Of course_. Of course he would bring him here.

The dazzling, irritating lights of _Rosemary and Thyme_ glare at him. A bar and club frequented by just about anyone who can slip in through the small army of security posted to the front doors. Just as Coën parks them in front of the door, Lambert slips out and has a word with the burly men. They nod and stand aside. Lambert looks back at him with a brilliant smile. “Come on, Geralt!” he calls out.

Coën offers him a sympathetic look through the rear-view mirror. “I can hang around, if you like?”

 _If you want to bolt after a minute_.

Geralt grunts. “Might be an idea,” he rumbles, but steps out of the car all the same. He’s used to it; having security come up to meet him. Despite everything, even though they’re contracted by the bar and they could call the police on someone like him, they know to lead him past the queues formed outside and get him into the building as quietly as possible. He catches a few faint whispers, all about the _White Wolf_. He tries not to let his eyes roll. He’s had enough of it, to be honest. But Lambert laps it up. Sticking close to Geralt’s side, he gets anything he wants. A completely different world to the one he grew up in.

They’ve barely stepped into the bar before a woman meets them. Armed with a clipboard and armoured in a suit, she points to some secluded rooms to the side of the bar. “If you would like to come with me, Mr. Rivia?”

Geralt grunts and follows. Lambert makes idle chatter with the woman; always polite when he wants to be, laughing when he should be keeping the swearing to a minimum. But as soon as they’re shown to the rooms, Lambert turns on his heel and whispers something into her ear. They have a quiet conversation, one that Geralt can’t hear through the din of music.

She nods. “I’ll see if they’re available.”

“They’ll be available,” Lambert says firmly, palming some gold into the woman’s hand. She nods curtly before disappearing.

Geralt watches Lambert stride into the room. It’s a far cry from the main bar; chrome-lined and with a dance floor already heaving with people. Even the booths lining the sides of the room are full, with parties of people keeping to themselves. Curious glances had followed him while they walked through the floor. Now, shielded away, at least he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore.

But he still has Lambert, which is a problem. The man makes himself at home within the room; letting the door click shut behind them and tossing his jacket over the back of an L-shaped couch pushed to the back of the room. A well-stocked bar lines the walls, something that has grabbed Lambert’s attention.

“You work too much,” the man lilts, pulling some bottles from the shelves. “You need to loosen up a bit.”

Geralt grunts, stalking over to the couch. It’s plush and just soft enough for him to sink back into it. He leaves his jacket sprawled beside him, still within an arm’s reach just in case he decides to leave early. He thinks of Coën, driving aimlessly around downtown, or maybe grabbing something to eat while Geralt ponders when it would be an acceptable amount of time passed for him to leave.

“Then let me go home and sleep,” he sighs, burying his face into his hands. Lambert...is a lot. The only reason why Geralt hasn’t flung his body into the nearest river is that he’s family. And Vesemir will come out of hiding or retirement to make sure Geralt’s body joins his.

Not that there haven’t been moments. His fingers itch for the trigger, but not here. If he’s going to kill Lambert, he’ll make it look like a damn accident.

The man plies him with alcohol, setting a familiar drink down in front of him. Geralt’s glare softens slightly, but doesn’t disappear completely. He reaches out, taking a measured sip. It’s strong, whatever he’s concocted, mostly whiskey that burns the back of his throat. But it’s enough to start unwinding the tension from his muscles.

There’s a knock at the door. Lambert, midway through knocking back a shot of something, eyes the door. He sets his glass down and the same hand moves to his waist, to the sheathed gun resting there. Geralt’s eyes narrow. If he’s smart, if he can keep a hold on himself, then that gun will stay where it is.

Lambert cracks the door open just enough to glimpse at who’s outside. Geralt’s ears twitch as the man grunts, stepping outside for a moment.

There’s a short conversation, one that he can’t hear. He reaches for his glass, taking another measured sip of whiskey and letting it sizzle on his tongue. If he’s going to be dragged this far away from home, he’s not going to weather the night sober. He thinks briefly of fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, dialling Coën’s number and getting the man to come back. He has enough drinks lining the bar in his own home. Who’s to say that he can’t get what he wants at home? At least his ears will be spared from having to endure endless thumping of music beyond the walls.

Lambert steps back into the room before he can make his decision. He’s as comfortable as he can be; his jacket set to the side as he lounges back against the plush couch. His legs drift apart from each other, but only because the day’s work finally starts coiling through his muscles and tensing them.

A devilish smile starts to curl along Lambert’s lip. Another man joins him, and Geralt blinks. He’s not a man he would expect Viola to have in her employ. He’s certainly not dressed like it. Hair that sweeps over and dusts his eyes, a luring smile that rounds his cheeks and highlights the faint flush of colour. Geralt’s eyes wander. His visitor is made up in tight-fitting pants – leather, if he were to guess – and a shirt that dips low enough into the middle of his chest.

Lambert just about manages to swallow a delighted laugh. “My dear brother works too much,” he lilts, nodding to the other side of the room. He turns his eyes back to the man. “He’s been terribly stressed lately. Be a good lad and make sure he enjoys himself tonight. He’s an awful bastard when he’s pent up.”

He’s going to fucking kill Lambert. Screw making it look like an accident. He might just have Coën drive by one of the biggest rivers in town just so he can hurl Lambert over the bridge and into it. So fucking what if Vesemir appears at his door tomorrow, glaring daggers at him.

But it’s either the whiskey or the man’s eyes slowly drifting over him, the urge to kill his brother is slowly fading. Geralt grunts.

He eyes his brother, watching the mop of red, curly hair try and disappear around the corner. Despite that, Lambert is loud enough for him to keep track of, even when the door clicks closed and he’s left alone with his guest. He turns to the man. “How much did he pay you?” he rumbles.

The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. Scrutinising whatever words perch on the tip of his tongue. If he’s one of Viola’s, which Geralt doesn’t think is likely with the more he stares at him, he’ll hold that tongue.

Geralt sighs. “I’ll pay you twice as much to turn around and leave me alone.”

The man’s face lightens. A delighted smile suddenly stretches over his lips, and just for a moment Geralt thinks that he might be free. There aren’t many things he can’t worm out of with money.

But this doesn’t seem to be one of them. Geralt notices the man holding a drink in one hand. He brings it up to his lips, resting them against the rim. “That’s a shame. If you don’t want me to do anything, fine,” he lilts, taking a measured sip. It’s bright and shines slightly when it catches the lights. Geralt can practically taste how sweet it must be. The man hums. “But company is free. We can talk. Or sit here in silence, since you don’t seem to be the _talking_ type.”

Geralt stares at the man. “It’s bad manners to refuse a boss’ offer.”

“It’s bad manners to come into a whore’s bar and turn him down,” he replies just as easily, tilting his head again.

Geralt isn’t unused to having people try and read him. Ever since a grubby-faced, shaggy-haired pup appeared at Vesemir’s side one day, he’s had eyes watch and regard him. He’s learned how to shake them all off; to keep himself measured and in control, unreadable. Even when his temper flares, he can keep it to himself. He’s used to people trying to burrow under his skin.

But this man, with eyes the colour of oceans and a smile as bright as the sun, burns right through his skin and reaches into his muscles and bones. Geralt sighs. He grabs his drink and takes a mouthful, not even wincing at how the whiskey burns and stings the back of his mouth and his throat as he swallows it.

It’s suddenly not enough. He could pad over to the bar, down the whole bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves. Or he could get his company to do it. He seems to know his way around a bar and its bottles.

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Listen, you don’t want me for company,” he grounds out. It’s more words than he would normally gift anyone. Usually, if his patience starts to wear thin, or people annoy him just enough, he leaves. No reason to give any excuses. But his company is the responsibility of someone else, and if they see Geralt leaving as quickly as he plans to, words might have to be said to the man.

He has a certain soft spot in his heart for those who find their work in sex.

The man lifts his chin. “I know who you are. You don’t work here long before you start picking up names.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And who is trading those names?” It’s all well and good having the right kind of people knowing your name in the boroughs; but it’s dangerous to pick up on whispers. People can be talking about you for all the wrong reasons.

“Everybody.” The man lifts a shoulder. “Everyone wants to be the White Wolf. Or in his pack.” The man’s eyes venture down. Brave things that linger on the open folds of Geralt’s shirt. His neck bobs as he swallows, taking a measured breath. He can feel his skin starting to flush from the scrutiny. “A few want to be in his bed.”

“And what about you?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of the centre of his chest. “Do you fall into any of those groups of people?”

“I didn’t give it much thought, to be honest,” the man replies, lowering his voice to match, “until now.”

It’s almost lost to the thump of music. Even through the walls of the secluded rooms, broken off from the main bar where wandering eyes stop, it still worms into him. Before long, his heart matches the beat of the music, thumping in his chest and rattling his ribcage. Geralt swallows the last of his drink before setting his glass away. The couch underneath him is just plush enough to let him sink into it.

The moment he sits back against the couch, splaying an arm out to the side, sure fingers suddenly explore his chest. The fabric of his shirt is pulled at and scrutinised. A nice paying job means nice things. And even though he spent most of his life preferring to keep to simple clothes, Vesemir insisted on looking the part of the head of a pack. Pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons always undone to reveal a portion of his chest. A simple silver chain sits around his neck, pooling in the hollow. Blue eyes investigate, spanning over everything fingers map out. “I knew you were the White Wolf the moment you walked in,” he lulls. Blue eyes glance up at Geralt’s hair. A tell-tale shade of white. “And not because of the obvious. But you hold yourself in a certain way. You want to walk a head higher than everyone, because that’s what someone taught you to do. But you want to blend into the walls, too.”

The man tilts his head, his gaze softening. “Have I caught myself a shy wolf?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Are you a therapist?” he asks, not helping the small smile that quirks the corner of his lip. This one...this one is peculiar.

The man laughs. It’s a light thing, and the smile that stretches over his lips rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Too many strangers have batted their eyelashes and dazzled him with sweet smiles, while none of it was at all genuine. This man, though, Geralt likes. His smile lures a small one out of him, and he’d very much like to hear that laugh again.

Inquisitive fingers only get braver as they catch one of his shirt’s buttons, fidgeting with it. The man hums. Within seconds, Geralt’s lap is full.

The man moves surely, slinging his leg over Geralt’s thighs and perching himself on Geralt’s lap. Arms slowly wind around his shoulders, crossing at his nape.

Geralt’s hands go to the man’s hips, settling over the arches and feeling the soft swell of muscle underneath. He’s dressed just as well as Geralt; in a soft blue shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes, slacks that ride up and bunch around his thighs, showing off the muscle gathered there. He isn’t a small or lithe man by any means. Not in the way Viola’s people usually are. His fingers are sure in what they’re doing, as are his lips.

Geralt grunts as he’s caught in a kiss. The man dips down and the arms around Geralt’s shoulders tighten and draw him closer. The man’s lips are warm and plush and flavoured with tequila and something searingly sweet. Below it all, Geralt can taste him.

The hands on the man’s thighs tighten, with his fingers delving into any bit of muscle he can find. They eventually travel, slipping around and kneading the globes of the man’s ass. A cut-off groan is muffled against his lips. With that, hips roll and grind and the arms around his shoulders gather him closer—

There’s a firm knock at the door. It cuts through everything and almost scalds the both of them. The arms slung over his shoulders tighten, drawing Geralt closer, and the hands he has on the man’s hips firm too.

Geralt parts from those plush, reddening lips, barely swallowing down a growl. “What?” he calls out. It could be someone from the bar, it could be Lambert. Though, Lambert would just barge in and make himself known. He wouldn’t bother with doing something as polite as knocking.

He keeps his jacket in the corner of his eye. One hand parts from the man’s thigh, resting just beside his jacket, ready to draw his gun if he needs to. The man stiffens against him, probably seeing the movement too.

A woman’s voice cuts through the door. “Apologies, Mr. Rivia,” she calls in through the door. She doesn’t come in, and it’s probably from the sharpness of Geralt’s voice. That’s fine. The fact that she’s even here, taking him away from the body on top of him, annoys him to no end. But she continues on nonetheless. “None of our regulars are available. I’m afraid I don’t have anyone for you.”

The words take a moment to settle with him. He remembers Lambert palming gold into her hand, the mutterings of someone being available. He isn’t stupid. And he knows what his brother is like.

The body on top of him doesn’t even stiffen. But a small sigh is puffed against his lips. Blue eyes blink open, watching his, scrutinising. Waiting for Geralt to say something, either to him or the woman outside.

He muses over his words for a moment. _Sly thing_ , he thinks, regarding the man on top of him.

“That’s fine,” he grunts, sitting up a bit. He moves them both, letting the man lay back slightly. The arms loosen from his shoulders, but still sling over them as if they always belonged there. And he finds himself loath to actually part with the warm body perched on him.

But the warm body isn’t meant to be there at all.

At Geralt’s quirked eyebrow, the man sighs. “I saw you come in,” he says, reaching up to brush some of Geralt’s hair back from his face. He curls it around his ear. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Geralt grunts. “You’re not one of Viola’s, are you?”

“I’m a whore, among other things,” the man corrects, but he muses over his words for a moment. Whatever he says next could earn him a death sentence. When he’s decided on what he’s going to say, his hips move. A slow roll over Geralt, keeping his attention. As if Geralt could focus on anything else but the enigma on top of him. “But I don’t work for Viola.”

Geralt hums, lifting his chin. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” the man replies. The same fingers that explored his chest now skim over the ridge of his jaw, sending slight shivers through Geralt as his skin scalds. The man’s touch is too much, even now. “Though, I’m currently looking for some new business ventures.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. People have asked things of him in the past. And he has had certain people be more _forward_ than others. This isn’t the first time he’s been straddled and kissed and plied with gentle touches, and suddenly a business plan is placed in front of him.

But this man may be the only one Geralt hasn’t shoved off of him yet. His hands settle back on the man’s thighs, feeling a gentle tremor shiver through them.

The man perched on Geralt’s lap straightens, pulling himself just out of kissing range. _Brave little thing_ , Geralt things. “I heard a rumour that you’re looking for a new hitman,” the man lulls, letting his arms fall from Geralt’s shoulders. Sure hands map down his chest, lingering slightly over every swell of muscle they can find.

Geralt blinks. Letho’s death isn’t public knowledge. His own people haven’t been told yet, just because Geralt can’t be bothered dealing with the fallout just yet. He needs to gather everything he has, resource-wise, just because the Vipers might not be too pleased one of their own has fallen. He’s been keeping an eye on Lambert. One more outburst and Geralt will have run out of rivers to dump bodies in.

The man’s dexterous fingers linger on the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. He plucks one open, revealing more of his chest. It stops there, though. Geralt wonders vaguely if the man can feel how his heart hammers in his chest. He’s caught. And he could very easily shove the man off and go home. But this man knows about a vacancy in his house. How he knows about Letho’s death, that’s another matter.

For now, the man has his attention.

The man tilts his head. “I want to be a member of your house,” he murmurs, his gaze flickering up to meet Geralt’s. “I’m done with working by myself.”

Having the man within his house would keep him close. Wolves could keep their eyes on him; and tear him apart if he became too brave. Geralt hums, musing. “You know your way around a gun, I suppose?” Even though he doesn’t work for the woman, he knows that Viola teaches those on her payroll how to use one and a blade, if it ever calls for it.

The man nods. “I’ve known how to kill someone longer than how to pleasure them,” he counters.

Geralt’s chest tightens. He lifts his chin. “What’s your name?” he rasps.

“Jaskier,” the man replies.

A single name shouldn’t mean much, but when it’s _Jaskier_ —

A slow smile slowly curls along Geralt’s lips. _Of course_. “The same Jaskier who dealt with one of my irritating problems in Cidaris?”

Jaskier laughs. The same laugh Geralt wants to hear more of. “I didn’t know that you considered Valdo Marx an irritating problem, but he was certainly irritating to me, and causing problems.”

“Well, I guess I owe you a thank you.” Without the pompous bastard strutting around like a peacock, making far too much noise about anything and everything, Geralt’s men can work a lot easier within the streets without being bothered by a man who’s far too brave for his own good.

Jaskier hums. His fingers pluck at the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, seemingly struggling between undoing them and revealing more of his chest, or leaving them be. Geralt hopes for the former. “I can think of a few ways to repay me,” Jaskier lulls. Those fingers venture further down, deftly catching and undoing Geralt’s belt.

At the clink of the buckle, a low moan slips out of Geralt’s throat. He reaches up, catching Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. “Careful, little lark,” he rumbles, delighting in how the man’s eyes shimmer. His attention is solely Geralt’s, already wrapped around him. The voice that rumbles out of him is deep and rasping. “Wolves are dangerous.”

A shiver shakes up Jaskier’s spine. “Good,” he replies, dipping down to lure a kiss out of Geralt. He hums against his lips, breath hitching when Geralt snags his bottom lip in his teeth and tugs.

A clever and sure hand slips down the front of his pants, reaching into his briefs and curling around his cock. He’s already half-hard. The man peaked his interests. Fingers coil around it, slowly pumping up and down. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when Jaskier twists his hand around his head, gathering a bead of precum in his palm to slick his way back down. It’s dry, but the pressure and coil of the man’s fingers around him is just enough to keep his interest. And the squirming thing in his lap, plying him with kisses and luring words, has him _very_ interested.

Geralt slides his hands into Jaskier’s pants, kneading the globes of his ass and rolling their hips together. A thrum of pleasure rumbles through him. A lithe groan slips out of the other man.

He pauses when he feels metal.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow.

Jaskier, for the first time all night, actually blushes. Though, he smiles his way through it. He pushes his hips back against Geralt’s hands, wanting them to keep going in their explorations. He’s a hopeful thing, if he expected Geralt to say yes. Or an incredibly self-assured one. Geralt isn’t sure which one he’d appreciate more.

Geralt’s finger traces around the man’s rim, following the edges of what he can only expect is a plug. He leans up, plucking a gentle kiss from Jaskier’s lips. “Stretched out already?” he hums, lounging in the way his lips tingle after kissing Jaskier’s.

The man doesn’t answer. It could be the blush that’s warming his cheeks giving him all the answers he needs, but Geralt delights in any sounds he manages to lure out of the man. He grabs the end of the plug and tugs it gently. The body on top of him shivers.

He sets up a gentle rhythm, delving the plug in and out of Jaskier’s hole. He can feel how wet the man is, and the images that flash in front of Geralt almost catch his breath. He might have spotted Geralt coming into the bar, or known that he would have come this way. To be as bold as to assure himself of a night with the White Wolf, to go into a bathroom stall or the back rooms of the bar, lube and plug in hand, readying himself.

Geralt’s growl rumbles through his chest. “Has anyone else had you today?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, a moan slipping out. “No,” he manages to breathe.

Geralt nips at his jaw. “Good,” he mutters against the skin. “Because you belong to me now.”

Jaskier’s moan is a gorgeous thing, just as beautiful as his laugh.

He isn’t a possessive person. He sees other masters of their guilds hoard people in their beds, and while these people walk around the boroughs draped in silks and gold, people know who they belong to and wouldn’t dare look in their direction, let alone touch them. He’s never been like that. Those who have fallen into his bed have had their time and have gone with the changing wind.

And then there’s Jaskier, who he’s known for all of thirty minutes now, and he wants to keep him forever. He slowly works the plug in and out of Jaskier, languishing in every small choked-off sound that he wrings out of the man. Eventually, the man’s hand tightens around his cock. If he can tease him, then Jaskier can tease right back.

Geralt sets his teeth to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, slowly working the plug out of the man’s hole. There’s a broken attempt at Geralt’s name, followed by a high-pitched whine when the plug slips out of him. As soon as it’s gone, and Geralt sets it on to the couch to be forgotten about, he delves in with two fingers.

Jaskier did a good job of stretching himself, but he still tightens and clamps around Geralt’s fingers. He curls just enough to search out that spot inside of the man, and when he brushes it with the pads of his fingers, one of Jaskier’s arms coils around his shoulders and hauls them flush against each other. “ _Geralt_ ,” he breathes.

The heat around him is hot and warm and wet. Geralt’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth at the thought of burying himself into it. His cock twitches in Jaskier’s hand. He nips at Jaskier’s jaw. “Get us both ready,” he rumbles.

Hand scramble and pull off what they can. He’s desperate, Geralt can tell that. And he is too. The more time Jaskier spends squirming in his lap, bunching their slacks down as far as he’s able too before perching back on his lap, the more fidgety he becomes. When Jaskier is close enough, he winds a firm arm around the man’s waist and holds him in place.

It shouldn’t sear his blood as much as it does. He’s lost count of the number of people falling in and out of his bed. Some appear more often than most, while others are gone by the time the sun decides to peer over the horizon. But this one...

Geralt reaches down, guiding the man’s hand on his cock. It’s tight and quick, and if he’s not careful then this will all be over with too soon. Jaskier’s hand eventually falls away. He squirms on Geralt’s lap, trying to roll back on to the other man. The noises that slip out of him Geralt will commit to memory. If he’s as serious about this new proposition as he thinks he is, Geralt will be hearing those noises for many nights to come.

He sets the head of his cock against the man’s hole. A small chuckle escapes him as Jaskier whines and tries to roll his hips back. Geralt tights his old on him. “I’ll give you everything, darling,” he rumbles, delighting in the shiver that shakes through the man’s body. He sets his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, hints of teeth scraping, as he slowly pushes himself into the man.

He struggles to keep his breath. Jaskier might have stretched himself out, and Geralt might have played with him for as long as he could have, but the heat that surrounds him is hot and tight and already lures depraved sounds out of him. Jaskier’s moan is choked and stuttering as he lets his hips fall flush against Geralt.

 _He’s perfect_. Geralt moans against Jaskier’s jaw. Short puffs of hot breath ghost the man’s ear, making him shiver and tremble against him.

Jaskier’s arms coil around his shoulders, tightening their hold on him and bringing him closer. “Fuck me,” he sighs, half into the air above them. He lets himself feel Geralt for a moment. He’s big, and there isn’t a lot of space inside of Jaskier that he isn’t flush against. Every twitch of his hips has the tip of the man’s cock brushing his prostate. And this could all be over too soon.

Geralt has his hips trapped. He might allow the small quivers and rolls of movement, but he can’t lift himself. The hands around him tighten and fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Jaskier whines against Geralt’s lips. It’s too much and not enough. His cock leaks between them, the first few drops of precum already beading around his tip. He needs a hand on it. Or the man below him needs to move. Or _something_.

The man laughs, mostly to himself. It’s a rumbling thing that comes from the depths of his chest. Geralt leans back against the couch. His hands don’t part with Jaskier’s hips, but his hold loosens, just a touch. Lain out in front of him, Jaskier’s eyes wander over any stretch of bared skin he can find. “Come on, little songbird,” Geralt rumbles. “Take what you want.”

Jaskier’s moan is the only thing he can hear. The thump of music worming in through the walls, the shitty fluorescent lighting overhead, the hum of alcohol buzzing in his veins. It all slips away the moment the man’s hips roll and lift and fuck down on to him. Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyelids droop. There’s a struggle in him. To close his eyes and lean back, languishing in how Geralt feels inside of him. Or to watch the man underneath him, make those golden eyes meet his and see what he’s doing to him.

Geralt bites the edge of his tongue. The same war starts to unfurl within his own mind.

His hands do nothing more than guide. Jaskier’s thighs work and warm as he lifts himself up and down, slowly riding Geralt. The heat around him tightens and quivers. One of Geralt’s hand slips down to his thigh, feeling the muscle work. He pets skin and mumbles sweet, worshipping words. “That’s it,” he tries to steady his own voice. “Look at you, little bird. Taking my cock so well. You were made to be there, hmm?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as a moan slips out of him. One of his hands moves, curling into the hair at the back of Geralt’s head. He grunts as the man’s hold on him tightens. He might be enjoying himself, but he isn’t as naive to lose himself completely. Surely he must know what kind of effect he’s having on the man beneath him.

And he does – if the smirk curling along his lips is anything to by. Geralt tries to keep his breath. _In and out. Settle_.

Jaskier leans down, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. Their noses brush and warm air is shared between them. The smirk doesn’t budge. “Do you say that to all of your whores?”

Geralt pushes back. They’re close. The man’s lips are just there. He could lift his chin and steal a kiss. And he’s sure the other man is betting on it. His lips are plump and bitten already, luring him closer. “No,” he hums. “Though my hitmen tend to have excellent bed-manners.”

A laugh lilts out of the man. That’s it settled then. Jaskier works for him. And if he has his way – and if the other man is amenable – he’ll litter marks all over Jaskier’s skin so people get the message. Having a bird-like Jaskier perched on his shoulder, ready to go and hunt those undesirables he has out in the other boroughs, it tightens the coil in his core.

His hips lift and fuck up into him. He meets Jaskier thrust for thrust, and it lures the most divine of noises out of him. The smirk slips off of his lips as they stretch around moans and half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name.

Sweat starts to bead on both of them. Eventually, Jaskier’s thighs warm and give out, and he’s moved along with each of Geralt’s thrusts. He sags against the man’s chest, tightening the hold he has around his shoulders. “Fuck me,” he breathes against Geralt’s ear. “I want to feel you for days.”

He grabs the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and stands. The man’s arms tighten around his shoulders as he’s lifted and carried and eventually set down along the length of the couch. With the firm cushions underneath him, he rolls his head back. Blearily blue eyes watch Geralt; hovering above him and setting a hand next to his head.

His hips roll, driving himself deeper and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier’s breath thins and his whines grow higher and wisp. Every thrust fucks out one more sound Geralt can’t get enough of. He wants to hear more. He wants his name falling from the man’s bitten, plump lips. He wants to see what those hands can do; in his bed and for him out on assignments.

The people he hates most in life won’t know what hit them when he lets the songbird out of its cage.

Well-toned legs move, hooking around Geralt’s waist. Feet cross and heels dig into the small of his back. “Come on then, White Wolf,” Jaskier lulls, stretching his arms up and over his head. “Thank me properly.”

Geralt grabs his hips in a sure grip. Even through the shitty lighting, he can see the beginnings of marks form. He’ll leave more, when there’s time. When he has his little bird at home and in his bed, he’ll mark every stretch of skin he can find. And from the way the man watches him, his lips curling into a satisfied smile, he’s sure he feels the same.

Jaskier’s moans thin as Geralt snaps his hips. He’s close. He can feel beads of sweat starting to trail down his back. He fucks into the body beneath him with all he has, chasing down the edge that he can see in the distance. Jaskier’s legs splay around him, hips opening up, inviting him to delve deeper. If he could get any deeper, he would. The heat around him trembles and tightens, and it’s so wet and hot Geralt wonders if it has truly just been him to fuck the man tonight. He’s so spread open and inviting.

One of Jaskier’s hands moves. He watches it trail down, palming over his chest for a moment before it ventures downwards. Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Jaskier holds his gaze. Fiendish thing, Geralt thinks, watching a small smile curl the corner of his lip. “You can take your time with me later,” he wisps, not bothering to hide the moan that slips out of him when Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. His hand curls around his cock and gives a slow pump. The heat around Geralt tightens. His pumps start to match Geralt’s quickening thrusts. “When I’m in your bed – _fuck –_ you can do what you like. Your mouth, fingers, hands, cock. Whatever you like, darling. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have a few less problems to deal with.”

His words rasp as he stumbles closer to the edge, but they lure the more depraved of sounds out of Geralt. His hold on the man tightens as his hips start to stutter. Jaskier lifts his chin. His breathing thins and he moans Geralt’s name better than any of Viola’s whores. “Are you close, darling? That’s it, _oh gods_. Fuck it into me, Geralt. _Harder_ , good— _Geralt_ —”

The man’s breath catches as Geralt thrusts deeply into him, his hold on him turning white-knuckled, as he comes. Bowing over the man, he catches the first splattering of cum across Jaskier’s abdomen. Geralt moans at the sight. He trembles around him, hole fluttering, as come starts to pool around his cock and spill out.

Jaskier’s chest lifts and falls, every breath heaving.

Geralt has danced with enough of Viola’s payroll to know when they’re genuine or not. And though this little songbird might not be one of hers, he’s sure that he’s been in enough beds to know how to play people to his advantage. And Geralt has been careful. This bird might be his, but he’ll keep an eye on him. Any creature can turn against their masters; especially when a better offer comes along.

But he watches the man below him, fingers slowly trailing up Geralt’s abdomen and chest, feeling his sweat-beaded skin. Hooded eyes follow where his fingers go, slowly taking him in. Even through the shitty lighting overhead, he can make out just enough of him to hum. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch when blue eyes blink up and meet his.

He’s too soft to stay in the man. He bites down on a small whine as he slips out of him, already missing the warmth. Jaskier’s brow twitches in a small frown, but it’s gone within moments. Geralt sets a hand on the outside of the man’s thigh. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks. “No,” he says, after a time. “No, no. Just...You were good.”

Geralt meets his gaze for a moment, holding it. He hums. “Well,” he rasps, “as you said; I can take my time with you next time.”

It lures a smile out of the little bird. Jaskier stretches out, lounging in how his muscles groan and protest the movement.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Geralt manages to gather enough energy to slip away from the couch, fixing his trousers up and around his hips and doing up his belt. Sweat starts to cool and he just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. His jacket lies nearby, tumbled to the floor after he had placed Jaskier along the length of the couch.

Geralt fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. Numbed fingers are barely able to tap out Coën’s number. The man answers on the second ring. “Bring the car back,” Geralt grunts, glancing over to the man still stretched out on the couch. He’s brought a leg up, splaying it to the back of the couch. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch at the sight: the man reaching down and trailing a finger around his hole, feeling wet heat slowly trail out of him.

Coën hums. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Geralt replies, lowering his voice. He leaves it at that, because he’s sure that even if he doesn’t say anything, Coën will take one look at them both in the backseat and know everything he needs to know. He can already feel colour start to warm his cheeks.

Lambert will be given a wide berth. Gods forbid if he knew that his plan for the night worked – in a way. He’s sure this isn’t what the man planned, but he’ll lord it over Geralt for weeks on end if he finds out that Geralt did in fact have a good night.

He hangs up with the knowledge that Coën will be here in moments. His ears twitch at the sound of clothes shuffling.

Jaskier pulls down his shirt, and Geralt mourns the loss of a bare chest to look at. He’s managed to fix himself back into something more or less presentable; though his hair is distinctly out of place and a colour flushes along the heights of his cheeks. He doesn’t look much better, he guesses. He can feel wisps of hair dusting his face, fallen out of his ponytail. He should fix it, try and run his hands through his hair and fix it back into something normal. But blue eyes flicker up to his face. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to curl a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “Ready to go?” he asks. His voice is still rasped and nothing but a gentle rumble. His hand gentles down the side of his face, trailing gooseflesh in its wake.

Geralt hums.

Jaskier’s smile is a devastating thing. He lifts his chin. A silent request.

Geralt bows, brushing a light kiss on to his lips. Jaskier moans into it, trying to chase it even as Geralt pulls away. A sure, firm arm coils around the man’s waist. “We have a lot to discuss,” he rumbles, already leading them both out of the room. No one waits outside for them. Lambert will have taken up a space at the bar, probably having lured someone into his lap. He already made his promise to Geralt to keep himself out of trouble and make his own way home. And Geralt, knowing better, knows that at least one of those things is true.

 _Rosemary and Thyme_ has secret, more shielding, exits for certain patrons. Viola, catching Geralt’s eye just as he passes her, blinks at the man curled around him. Jaskier buries his laugh into Geralt’s shoulder, but winks at the woman all the same.

Coën and their car sit out in the alley. The man is still in the driver’s seat. He isn’t their driver, but often finds himself there because Lambert drives too recklessly and Eskel is never around enough. And if Geralt could drive himself, he would. But with a certain man starting to paw at him again, he clambers into the back of the car and shuts the door behind them without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: "Hey, what about this simple prompt?"  
> Me: "Good idea!"  
> Also Me: *7k words later*
> 
> Practise safe sex, friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Additional Tags Listed! 
> 
> In a mad move by me, here is a part two because I had an absolute blast writing this AU. Maybe I'll dabble in it more often 👀

They were all the same. Apparent kings in their palaces perched higher than anyone else. Once you’ve met one, you’ve met them all. They all clamber for things; power, mostly, in whatever form that comes in. Some do their business in drugs and others gamble with arms. And then there are people holding it all together, managing everything so things don’t spill over and flood the cities. Geralt is one of the latter.

Maybe that’s why Jaskier likes him so much. The White Wolf doesn’t seem like the other pompous bastards strutting around the boroughs, dazzling whoever they can with flashy cars and clothes and gold pouring out of their veins. Geralt has everything the others want, and he’s quiet about it. He’s quiet in meetings held at his house, surveying the room from the head of the table and musing over what the others say. When they’re dragged out into town, he keeps to himself. Or, to Jaskier’s delight, he keeps himself to Jaskier. Warmth blooms through the man’s skin and muscles whenever Geralt curls an arm around his shoulders or settles a hand on his thigh. A silent broadcast to anyone with wandering eyes that Jaskier is his. And the man can’t find any fault with it.

He blinks as a chirping beep brings him back to the present. The high-rise towering over Temeria reaches up further than the rest, with the elevator’s walls half made of glass. It’s a lovely view out on to the glowing city, Jaskier will give them that. But when two black-suited men escort him out into a dull, monochrome hallway, he swallows down a sigh at the mundane sight of it all. Penthouses hoarded by boss tend to look the same after a while.

He doesn’t expect much with Foltest. Enough whispers have brushed his ear about the man for Jaskier to already know his type. A man who stumbled on to the right thing at the right time, and how he’s become one of those usual kings of the city with far too much gold on his hands; if the monstrosities hanging on the walls are anything to go by. He regards each painting with thinned lips. _Hmm_.

The hallway stretches on forever, but eventually, his escorts stop him outside of a door. Jaskier eyes it for a moment. Thick wood, possibly oak, varnished and dazzling, like the rest of the building. One of his escorts knocks curtly, stepping back into line with the other and Jaskier. His eyes drift to the men’s waists. Sheathed knives and holstered guns. Under ill-fitting suits that do absolutely nothing for their figures, he can make out the bulking of chest armour. Jaskier rolls his eyes. Fine. He won’t have to deal with them, if he’s smart.

Someone else opens the door. Not Foltest. Obviously – that would be far too easily. It’s a woman with tightly drawn back hair and a painted face. She waves them in, but settles Jaskier with a scrutinising look. “Has he been searched?” she asks, not to him of course.

The escort to Jaskier’s side nods. “He’s clear.”

They’d like to think so. He isn’t as bold as to bring a gun or knife with him, but he does miss the reassuring feel of it resting against his waist or thigh. He has something else, instead. Foltest might be extravagant and boisterous, but he’s stubbornly protective of himself. He isn’t stupid either.

Though, inviting the White Wolf’s songbird into his home is hardly the tell of an intelligent man. Not that Foltest knows anything about him. To the best of his knowledge, Jaskier is just another whore blow in with the changing wind. He made sure to catch the man’s eye in Vizima and here he is; a cordial invitation to one of the man’s homes within his kingdom. Jaskier’s eyes threaten to roll.

The woman hums shortly but leads them through. It’s not an apartment, but it’s big enough to be. Jaskier regards the room. It’s more of an office than anything else. Modern-cut structure with chrome and metallic trims, clashing with oak furnishings. Jaskier sighs. Maybe Foltest’s successor will have better tastes.

The man in question is behind his desk, turned away from them and looking out one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back of the office. He regards the cityscape as he hums down the phone. “Yes, yes,” he eventually sighs, “see to it. The last thing I need is Merigold hounding me about late shipments.”

Jaskier’s lip threatens to twitch. _Merigold_ , he thinks. _The same Merigold Geralt is having shoved into your position the moment your heart gives out_.

The armoured escort stays dutifully by his side, even when the woman stalks forward to Temeria’s kingpin. Her heels click against the marble floor and it catches Foltest’s attention. His gaze bypasses her and locks on to Jaskier. The man’s breath hitches for a moment.

He has his own armour. Fitted jeans that cling to the swells of muscle on his thighs and calves; a shirt that dips down low enough to show off his chest, accented with plunging necklaces of gold and silver – all gifts from Geralt, of course. Not that Foltest will ever know that. Jaskier’s hair is ruffled just enough to look soft and touchable while his eyes are bright and lips bitten and full. Foltest can run his eyes over him as many times as he likes; it’ll be the last thing he ever sees, if all goes well.

There might have been a time where staring his mark down might have sent trembles through him. His fingers might have fidgeted and curled into his fists, trying to make them settle and stop shaking. But now, all these years later and with countless lives ended, Jaskier lifts his chin.

A slow smile curls along his lip.

* * *

_Triss : [Image Attached]_

_Triss : Long live the King._

Geralt regards his phone. The droning of his counsellors fades into the background as he takes in the picture. Foltest sat in his chair, sprawled and slumped in it with a thin, but deep, puncture wound to his neck. It’s not the flashiest of kills, but it’s effective and quick and guarantees Geralt can get someone into Temeria’s elite without much hassle. Not that many in Foltest’s circle were going to object to it. Too many offers had found their way to Geralt’s door, all saying the same thing: just get rid of the prick.

So he dutifully laid each of them down at his songbird’s feet. It’s not Geralt’s business to get involved. Not directly, at the very least. He can’t be seen holding a gun or knife to anyone’s throat, but those working for him can do what they like.

“Geralt?”

He glances up at the mention of his name. Not many people are brave enough to use it. Even with all the rumblings about the Old Wolf’s pup taking charge, none of those whispering behind his back is ever brave enough to challenge him directly. They certainly aren’t brave enough to use his given name.

So that only leaves—

Geralt meets Lambert’s eyes. “Hmm?”

The red-haired man sighs, his eyes threatening to roll into the back of his head. “When you’re quite done,” he says slowly, “do you mind giving your input on our latest movements?”

Geralt sets his jaw. A map of the boroughs is scattered throughout the table. His personal household sits around him; wolves that have been prowling the streets of Kaedwen and neighbouring boroughs all their lives. They know what would be best. He takes in what Lambert’s talking about. A new shipment of arms will arrive in the next few days. Getting it through the ports won’t be a problem. It’s trying to get the arms back home to Kaedwen that could cause issues – Calanthe has eyes everywhere. He glances to Eskel. “Find out what the lioness is doing,” he explains, “where her eyes are, where they like to stalk. Work a path around that.”

Eskel inclines his head.

The conversation dims as two pairs of footfalls sound from out in the hallway. A dulled conversation joins them, but eventually fades as the two people outside pad further away from the office.

Geralt sighs. “Does anyone else have anything they want to discuss?” he throws into the centre of the table. Some gathered around meet his eyes, others don’t. But they all shake their heads. Geralt nods. “Good. If that’s everything then, get out of my house.”

Within seconds, chairs scrape and people shoot up from the desk. They file out in whatever order they came in; but Geralt is out first. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal, or time, to send a glowering look over his shoulder at Lambert snorting a sharp laugh.

Keeping work to his home is a blessing and a curse. Vesemir warned him to keep it away; have an area far away from home to have as his domain where he wouldn’t have to worry about brave underlines getting a bit too sure in themselves and unleashing guns and blades. But everyone is underneath his heel. No one would even think of drawing anything against the White Wolf; not with his two brothers glued to his side, always glowering at those gathered for meetings even if Geralt isn’t.

But having his office in his home means that he can scramble upstairs quicker; to the portion of the house he lives in. It was one of the gifts Vesemir left him. It’s in a quieter area of Kaedwen, in a nice neighbourhood that doesn’t draw much attention. He’s doubtful that his suburban neighbours even know what he does.

Coën meets him in the landing. He inclines his head, a slight bow if nothing else. Geralt takes a steady breath. “Everything went well?” he asks, keeping his voice low. He spots a beam of light stretching out into the hallway. His bedroom door is cracked open.

Coën nods. “He made good time,” he hums, “barely had to turn off the engine. The whole job took about twenty minutes.”

Geralt’s brow lifts. _That **is** good time_. Something twitches the corner of his lip. Something tells him that his songbird was eager to fly back home again. That, or Foltest was particularly draining to the man and he wanted to deal with the problem as swiftly as he could. Either or, Jaskier is home.

Geralt sets a hand on Coën’s shoulder. “Get some rest,” he murmurs, patting the man’s arm before slipping away into his room. His brothers all have rooms within the house. It’s enough space for everything Geralt could need it for, and with rooms to spare. It wasn’t long before Lambert noticed the rooms on the upper levels not being used and started crashing in one of them. Not many weeks after that, Geralt had three new tenants.

He loosens the bottom of his shirt out of his slacks as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. His sleeves are already rolled up to his elbows, and the top-most buttons of his shirt undone just enough to let him breathe. Vesemir would breach retirement and clip his ear if he ever found out that Geralt appeared before their counsel in sweatpants and a tee.

Jaskier’s clothes lie strewn over the foot of the bed. The sounds of lapping water and a muffled sigh drift out through the crack of the door. Geralt’s heart quickens. Familiar smells of perfumed oils and lotions drift out into the bedroom. In the weeks of the man being here, Geralt has found more and more of Jaskier’s things occupying space within different rooms of his house. Jaskier has burrowed himself into Geralt’s life in more ways than one, and Geralt can’t find himself bothered by it at all. Others have tried. Anyone who has managed to lure him into their beds has tried to stay. While some have left on their own terms, Geralt has had to shake off a few persuasive and forthcoming people in the past.

His fingers fumble with the last few buttons of his shirt, but he manages. As quietly as he can, he stalks towards the bathroom. The sharp scent of oranges and damask roses cover the roof of his mouth, almost suffocating.

It’s a familiar sight. Whenever Jaskier returns home, whether from one of Geralt’s contracts or one he’s picked up with the wind, he likes to bathe. Geralt’s used to it now. He knows exactly where to go to find the man when he hears the front door of the house clicking shut.

Geralt tilts his head, running his eyes over the man. He combs his fingers through his hair and relaxes against the back of the tub. The water laps at him, already bubbling and scented with things he knows will lure the White Wolf out of the shadows. Geralt leans against the portal of the door, folding his arms over his chest. Jaskier sure must know that he’s there, if the way he cranes his head back and breathes deeply is anything to go by. Geralt’s throat bobs at the sight of his neck stretching. It’s inviting. His fingers dig into his biceps.

The bathroom is dimly lit, with only a handful of candles dotted around on shelves and the edge of the bath. It’s calming and so different from the world outside. He watches the last string of tension slowly worm out of Jaskier’s shoulders as he lounges in the water.

When he finally speaks, mumbled words fumble out of numb lips. “Are you going to stay there all night, or are you looking for an invitation?”

Geralt’s eyes run over every stretch of skin he can find. He looks fine. He looks exactly like he did when he left. His skin is soft and flushed from the heat of the water. And when Geralt scans his eyes over the bathroom, he can’t find any blood-stained rags.

“Did he touch you?”

His voice is nothing more than a rumble, coming from the depths of his chest. He watches Jaskier try and clamp down on a shudder. Whether it’s from the blooming warmth of the bath or Geralt’s voice, or both, he isn’t sure. But he keeps his eyes firmly on the man lounging in front of him.

Jaskier sinks further down into the bath, letting the water lap at his chin and jaw. “No,” he mumbles. His eyes are closed and his brow is smoothed. He doesn’t look like a man who has just taken a life. But then again, Geralt doesn’t know how many years Jaskier has spent honing his craft, or how many people have known the end of his gun or knife. Any feeling on the matter of killing might have left him long ago.

Jaskier’s head rests against the lip of the bath. The water sloshes as he brings up his arms, resting them on either side and letting his fingers hang loosely. Beads of water drip from them. Geralt pushes himself away from the portal of the door, stalking into the bathroom. Jaskier’s eyes stay closed as he lounges, but Geralt smiles at the way the man tilts his head back. A silent request. When he reaches the bath, he kneels down and presses a firm kiss to Jaskier’s lips. The man hums. The water ripples again and suddenly Jaskier rises to deepen the kiss. A hand reaches behind and rests against Geralt’s nape, holding and keeping him close.

Geralt chuckles into the kiss. When he breaks away, he tries not to lounge in the small whimper that slips out of Jaskier’s throat. He’s home now. He has Geralt all to himself. Geralt cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Coën said you didn’t take long.”

Jaskier’s laugh is short. “I wanted to spend as little time as I could with Foltest,” he says. It’s only then do the man’s eyes open. Geralt keeps his breath. But Jaskier’s eyes are weapons in their own right, and it’s difficult to not drown in them. “He’s not the most appealing of men.”

Geralt snorts. “He’s a prick,” he agrees. He doesn’t like the images that threaten to blink in front of him. Of Foltest’s eyes running over Jaskier, or his hands reaching out to touch him. He imagines that Jaskier waited for whatever guards escorted him to the office to leave before he struck. He trails the back of his fingers along Jaskier’s cheek. “Triss sent me a picture.”

He wasn’t happy to let the man go without a gun or blade; no matter how many times Jaskier assured him that it was dangerous to bring them, that he would be _fine_. Still, he found himself pacing his house, wandering from room to room while the man was away. When he was eventually led into a meeting of his house, he couldn’t help his mind drifting.

Jaskier didn’t have his gun or blade, but it’s not to say he wasn’t armed. The puncture wound looked small, barely drawing a bead of blood. It’s just underneath the ridge of Foltest’s jaw, covered by his beard. No one is going to find out what happened; except a select few. Foltest’s body might be halfway down the river by now, heading towards the bay.

Foltest isn’t his concern anymore.

Jaskier’s eyes gleam. He lifts his chin, luring one final kiss out of Geralt before he sets his hand on to the man’s chest. “Now,” he hums, “let me enjoy my bath. I’ll be with you soon.”

 _Soon_. Not in a minute, not in an hour. But soon. Geralt huffs, but manages to pull himself away.

Geralt sits at the foot of his bed, shedding his shirt and dropping it off to the side. It’s forgotten about before it’s even brushed the floor. His shoes are next. He toes them off and kicks them to the side, out of sight and out of mind. In these quieter moments, when he can feel his heart starting to quicken and his breath thin, time seems to move at a terrible languid pace. His room never seems as expansive as it does now; stretching out around him in all directions. A large bed takes up most of it, made up with soft sheets and plush pillows. Tall lancet windows look out on to a backyard most of his neighbours have filled with pruned flowers or children’s swing sets. Vesemir kept the garden neat and tidy while he was here, and now, mainly out of respect for the man, Geralt has someone in to do it. The roses bloom every year, more vibrant than the last. And Geralt makes sure the bulbs of newer plants are sent out to Vesemir’s retirement hideaway.

Eventually, his ears prick at the sound of water sloshing and bare feet hitting the tiled floor of the bathroom. Geralt’s core tightens.

Jaskier takes his time. He might be working under Geralt – _technically_ – but he has as much influence over the man as he does with his contracts. Some part of him wants to be concerned by it. There might be a day where he wakes up to a loaded gun in front of his face or a blade to his throat. There might be a day where his car is run off the road. All simply because Jaskier got a better offer, or he simply grew tired. It’s not a rare thing for Jaskier’s interests to wander after a time.

But Geralt’s throat bobs as he waits. And he hates it. He wants to rush for the bathroom, grab the man’s hips, and haul him to bed. Even the bed part could be negotiable. He might have to make do with the sink’s ledge.

But he _waits_. Jaskier towels himself dry. Geralt manages to catch glimpses of him through the cracked door. A small whine slips out of his throat at the sight of the man catching his gaze. He holds it for a moment, before reaching to one of the shelves and plucking an onyx-coloured tub of moisturiser.

 _Devious little thing_.

And Jaskier takes his time. He runs his hands over every stretch of skin he can find, letting whatever oils and lotions he scents himself with soak into him and turn him sweet. Geralt’s nose flares. If Foltest had come near him, even _breathed_ on him, he would want every ounce of the man stripped from Jaskier’s skin.

A low growl slips out of Geralt’s throat. The idea of the man even looking at Jaskier makes his blood boil. If he wasn’t assured that Foltest is long dead and dealt with, he would do it himself. He never gets involved; but just this once...

Geralt blinks as Jaskier finally steps out into the bedroom. His skin is flushed and reddened, but soft and sweetly scented. The first wisps of it brush Geralt’s nose as the man stalks over to him. The smell of citrus and desert roses coat the roof of his mouth. Geralt’s legs part just as Jaskier draws near. A small smile curls along the man’s lips. Geralt reaches out. A hand curls into his.

He’s lured near, into the space between Geralt’s legs. His little songbird likes to perch on his lap whenever possible; on nights out downtown, at meetings held between Geralt and a select few of his household. Despite all of that, no whispers have lashed against the shell of his ear. His household knows better than to glower at the songbird. Jaskier can take care of himself just fine, but Geralt will have their names struck from life if they so much as made a comment under their breath.

Jaskier’s hands dust Geralt’s shoulders, feeling the swell of muscle there. “What have you been up to?” he lulls, watching his hands map out Geralt’s skin.

Geralt hums. “Nothing too exciting,” he rasps. He doesn’t mean to keep Jaskier an arm’s reach away, but he doubts the man would be terribly interested in the politics of making sure boroughs don’t start lurching at each other. They can growl and bare their teeth, but at the first sour scent of blood, chaos would erupt: and Geralt will have fellow borough bosses around his house wondering why everything went to shit.

Jaskier hums. His hands trail back up and smooth along the column of his neck. Geralt lets himself be moved. His head tilts back just enough for Jaskier to lean down and draw him into a long, languid kiss. Jaskier’s lips are soft and plush against his, lure more and more kisses out of him. He gathers the man into his arms and draws him flush against his chest.

Jaskier settles a hand against his cheek, holding and guiding for a moment, before he pulls away.

Geralt’s eyes have barely opened before he finds the man dropping down on to his knees in front of him. His breath threatens to hitch, and it takes far too much energy to keep it level. The corners of Jaskier’s lips twitch. He knows the effect he has on people. He knows the effect he has on Geralt. That first night at _Rosemary and Thyme_ , he already had Geralt lured in too close to shrug him off, even when he found out the truth about his songbird.

Jaskier’s fingers are deft and deadly things, and they make quick work of Geralt’s belt. He sits back, bracing his arms on the bed behind him. His fingers curl into the sheets, catching fistfuls of the fabric to hold on to. If the quirk in Jaskier’s lip is anything to go by, the man is feeling in a devilish sort of mood.

In the few weeks of Jaskier being here, he’s learned all he can from him; how he likes to be touched, how he touches others. What he likes and where. Enough early mornings and late nights have been lost between sheets and on the edges of Geralt’s desk in his office. Just about every corner of his office knows them at this stage, and not once have wandering eyes ever glanced their way. Thank the gods. Not that the others don’t know what’s going on. He isn’t going to insult their collective intelligence by saying so. Lambert rolls his eyes whenever Jaskier stands a bit too close to Geralt, or when his hand drifts over the small of his back or his shoulder whenever he passes. Eskel’s cheeks colour any time Jaskier gifts Geralt a light kiss to the ridge of his jaw or forehead.

He’s gotten to know just how skilled Jaskier can be in luring anyone under with just a coy glance or curl of his fingers. Geralt watches the scene in front of him. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth, bumbling and numb as he tries to gather words. Words are few and far between whenever he’s with his songbird. Beautiful and devastating blue eyes lift to his, and regard him for a moment. Jaskier undoes just enough of his pants to reach a hand inside and fish him out. At the first brush of his palm and fingers around his cock, Geralt bites down on a groan.

Jaskier leans forward slightly, pumping his hand around Geralt’s cock and letting it fill out. It doesn’t take long. Jaskier is bare and kneeling in front of him. He was already well on the way when he was alone and with his thoughts.

Bowed, full lips set against the head of his cock, and the first of many noises finally manages to slip out of Geralt. It’s some mix of a groan and an attempt at Jaskier’s name. Jaskier tilts his head, dusting his lips along the head and shaft of Geralt’s cock. Not sucking or kissing, just touching. And the hand around the base doesn’t budge.

Geralt could move them. He could reach for the back of his head, thread his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and stuff his mouth. But there’s a certain delight he takes in letting his songbird do whatever he likes with him. He certainly doesn’t let anyone else do it. Jaskier holds such power over him already, and it should bother him, but it really doesn’t.

His grip on the sheets tightens as Jaskier finally dusts a line of kisses along the length of him. The hand curled around the base of his cock tightens just enough to send a tremor shaking through his spine. Jaskier is skilled. His mouth and hands and fingers are more deadly than any bullet or blade. He knows how to use them and he’s keen to learn what his partners like. He had Geralt’s particular interests fleshed out after a night – that first night. He can’t apologise to Coën enough, but the man has heard enough over the past number of years, from all of them. Geralt bundled Jaskier up to his room and that was the end of that. Until sunlight stretched into the room the following morning and he woke to Jaskier’s lips dancing over every stretch of skin he could find.

Blue eyes flicker up to his. His gaze holds Geralt’s for a moment, quietly regarding. Jaskier’s lips have stilled against him, as has his hand. Geralt’s throat bobs as he swallows. Jaskier slowly pulls away, just enough for his warm breath to be the only thing touching Geralt. And it’s _awful_. His grip in the sheets turns white-knuckled.

Jaskier’s voice is still as sturdy as it always is. “Foltest asked about you, by the way,” he hums after a moment. His hand starts up again, tightening his grip and slowly pumping Geralt’s cock. It twitches and a bead of cum stays at the tip. Jaskier gathers it into his palm and lets it slick his way.

Geralt’s breath thins. “Did he?” he manages to get out.

Jaskier’s lips purse. “Well,” he tilts his head. “Not directly. He figured out that I was the White Wolf’s _little bird_.”

It doesn’t surprise him at all. They haven’t been...shy. He’s surprised Jaskier’s body hasn’t been littered in sniper-dots any time he steps outside. The prized bird of the White Wolf would ask for a pretty price; alive or dead.

And Foltest, although inept at the best of times, has a few contacts left. Geralt will deal with them in due course, but surely someone must have returned to him with information.

Jaskier’s laugh is short and more of a huff. “What was it he said,” he muses for a moment. His hand doesn’t still on Geralt’s cock. Slowly, distantly, Geralt can feel his core start to swell and tighten as Jaskier’s pumps up and down, twisting around the head of his cock to gather slick. Whatever his bird was about to say must come back to him. “Ah, of course. He was planning to, and I quote, send me back to the White Wolf trussed up like a seasonal bird.”

A growl clambers up Geralt’s throat.

“He was quite imaginative,” Jaskier says, tightening his grip around Geralt. “Had some ideas about the best way to tie me up and dump me outside your door. Whether or not I would be clothed wasn’t mentioned, but one can imagine what he thought.”

He wants to call for Coën; find wherever he dumped Foltest’s body and bring it to him. He wants the fucker strung up on the nearest highway junction, for all to see. The right kind of people will know exactly why he would be hung from there. Foltest always had a sour reputation.

One of Jaskier’s hands settles on the flesh of Geralt’s thigh. Soothing. The tips of his fingers gentle into the swell of muscle, pulling him back into the room. “He’s dead, my darling,” Jaskier whispers.

It shouldn’t curl his stomach as much as it does. It shouldn’t set his blood alight and make him want to gather his songbird close and wring as much pleasure out of him as he can. But Jaskier watches him and the maelstrom lashing behind his eyes. He knows. He knows exactly how to lure the worst, most carnal of emotions out of his wolf.

Jaskier’s voice lowers. “We had a little chat when I pushed the needle into his neck,” he lulls. “Mostly one-sided, I should say. It’s difficult to talk when you’re choking on your own blood.”

Geralt hums. A silent request for Jaskier to continue. Either with his words or his touch, he isn’t quite sure. But the man hums, tilting his head. He leans forward and dusts gentle kisses to the length of Geralt’s cock. When he speaks, his lips brush and tingle and Geralt just about manages to swallow a groan. “I told him I was yours,” Jaskier murmurs. “I told him that if anything happened to me, you would hunt him down and skin him alive.”

It plays out in front of him. Just beyond Jaskier’s bowed and bared body, he watches Foltest clutch at his throat. A single air bubble into the bloodstream is a terrible thing: but effective. Jaskier stays. He always stays. Just to be sure that his job is done and he won’t have a terrible irritated mark knocking at his door, trying to exact revenge.

But he’s sure Jaskier stayed just to make sure that the last words he ever heard in this world were Jaskier’s. The idea that Foltest died knowing _exactly_ who killed him, and who set the bird free with sharpened talons, it curls and settles in the centre of his core.

Jaskier is here. Jaskier is _his_ , with _him_. And it just about quells the last of the sourness stinging his tongue. His little bird watches him; as keenly and astutely as he watches most things. Piercingly blue eyes never leave his as Jaskier’s mouth slips back over the head of his cock.

A familiar hand catches Geralt’s and brings it to the back of Jaskier’s head. As soon as Jaskier’s hand falls away, Geralt’s fingers card through and grip the man’s hair. A deep hum rumbles out of Jaskier’s throat.

Geralt pushes him down. He groans at the hot, wet heat surrounding him. Jaskier has a talented mouth. In one easy movement, Geralt hits the back of his throat and he barely shudders. Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed as he takes a measured breath. And he sucks.

Geralt’s grip in his hair tightens. He guides when he can. Tremors of pleasure wring through him, tightening his core already. Jaskier manages to get him so close to the edge by just looking and smiling at him. It doesn’t take a lot to start luring him closer and closer.

Jaskier’s mouth is something else. The man’s hands skim Geralt’s thighs, gently palming over the muscle. Eventually, they still against his hips. His fingers dig in just enough for Geralt to pick up on the man’s meaning.

A silent request.

Geralt’s hips lift and his cock drives further into Jaskier’s mouth. The man hums around him, lips quirking as he lets Geralt fuck into him. Jaskier’s jaw slackens just enough for Geralt to use. And everything feels too much. The air in the room is thick and suffocating and he draws in as much as he can with every deep lungful. “Gods alive,” he breathes. He wants to let his head hang, eyes focused on the plump lisp stretched around him and how the man’s cheeks hollow with every suck. But he wants to lie back on the bed and let Jaskier have his way with him; not that he isn’t already. He might be the one fucking into the man’s mouth, holding him down on his cock and half-choking him, but Geralt isn’t the one in control. One small quirk of Jaskier’s eyebrow or a dusting of his fingers along his skin and this could all end.

But his little bird seems to be enjoying himself just fine. His eyelids have fluttered closed. And every push down on to Geralt’s cock has him moaning.

Geralt’s fingers tighten in the man’s hair. He lifts the man’s head just enough to have his lips around the tip of his cock. At that, Jaskier’s eyes blink open. He regards Geralt for a moment, quirking an eyebrow.

“You’re mine,” Geralt rumbles.

Jaskier’s eyes glimmer. The corner of his stretched out lips twitches.

Geralt slowly lowers him back down on to his cock. The wet, tightening heat of Jaskier’s mouth is too much, almost thinning his breath. Geralt holds the man’s gaze. “You’re good to come home to me, my little bird. I never have to worry about you, do I?”

Jaskier hums around him.

Geralt’s other hand leaves the sheets. His knuckles and fingers cramp from clutching on to them so tightly, but he dusts the back of his fingers over the swell in Jaskier’s cheeks. It’s gentle and soft; not at all how they should be with each other. Not how it _should_ be. But Geralt likes how the man’s eyelids flutter, tempted to close. There’s a war going on behind those eyes; does he watch Geralt bearing into his soul with his own gaze, or does he drown in the sensations washing over him?

Geralt lets his head fall to one side, his eyes slowly running over Jaskier’s body. “You took a long time in your bath,” he muses, letting his gaze linger on the small of the man’s back, on the swell of his ass. Geralt lifts his chin. “Did you touch yourself?”

Jaskier hums. Not a _yes_ or a _no_ , though the sparkle in the man’s eyes tells Geralt all he needs to know.

One of Jaskier’s hands slowly drifts away from his thigh, fingers lightly skimming and trailing gooseflesh where they go. The hand disappears down Jaskier’s front. Geralt knows when the man has wrapped a hand around himself when the heat around him grows tighter. A moan hums around him.

Geralt caresses Jaskier’s face. “Good boy,” he rumbles. His fingers trail down along the swell of Jaskier’s cheek. The tip of his index finger trails along the stretched lines of his lips. Geralt hums. “You’ve been good for me,” he hums. “And those who have been good deserve treats. What do you think, lark?”

Jaskier’s moan is different from the rest. He found out pretty quickly what can wring the right sounds of out his little lark.

The moment he has to slowly draw Jaskier’s mouth away from him is one that he mourns. His cock is red and ruddy, and Jaskier has enough wherewithal to suck at the head one last time before he pops away. Geralt’s hold in his hair tightens, just a fraction. Jaskier’s eyes glimmer.

The hand on Jaskier’s cock still pumps. It’s slow and loose not nearly enough, but it’s just to keep him interested. As if Jaskier’s mind would be anywhere else. Geralt stretches out a leg, and Jaskier blows out a harsh breath. Some shuffling and rearranging of limbs, and within seconds, Jaskier all but humps Geralt’s leg. The slow drag of his cock along his pant leg isn’t enough. Geralt loosens his grip in the man’s hair and Jaskier’s head rests against his thigh; mouth slackened and open, small moans slipping out between puffed lips with every roll of his hips.

Geralt hums. “What would you like, little bird?” He lifts his leg slightly, pushing back against Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier’s moans thin and lighten, and some attempt at Geralt’s name catches in his throat; but his head rolls and bleary blue eyes blink up at him. Geralt cards his fingers through the man’s hair – still soft and slightly damp from the bath. Sweet, citrus scents wisp around him, coating the roof of his mouth. Geralt lifts his chin. “Tell me, darling. Do you want to come like this? On your knees at my feet? Or do you want to be fucked up here?” Geralt pats the soft sheets of the bed. He didn’t care what he ordained his house with when he first got it. And within the few weeks of Jaskier being here, his bed has been lined with soft cotton sheets and plush pillows.

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed. “Bed,” he sighs, turning and setting his forehead into the swell of Geralt’s thigh. He pushes against the muscle. “ _Bed_ , now, please.”

His voice rasps and his breath thins. Geralt’s lips twitch in a pleased smirk. He taps the man’s shoulder; It’s a scramble more than anything else. Jaskier winces as his joints and muscles protest the quick movement, but he leans up and draws Geralt into a quick, but deep, kiss. At the first brush of his tongue along the seam of Geralt’s lips, Jaskier draws away. A game played between the two of them. Who is able to pull at who, and lure them close?

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hip. A gentle reminder that the scales are tipping in his favour. Not that they will ever sway too far towards his side. Jaskier still holds too much power over him, and he has nothing bad to say about it at all.

Geralt stands, listening to the bedsheets rustle behind him as he pads over to one of the bedside tables. He fishes a bottle of lube out – half-full over the past number of days, but he’s sure that Jaskier has his own collection scattered throughout the house, seeing as though he always seems to be ready. Images of the bath blink in front of him. Jaskier looked relaxed, but the long stretch of time where Geralt stayed perched at the foot of his own bed, waiting for the man to return, he knew exactly what his little songbird was up to. 

He turns, regarding the man in his bed for a moment. Jaskier lounges against the pillows piled to the head of the bed; bared long, lithe lines stretched out and languid. One arm curls behind his head, propping it up just enough to let him watch Geralt. The other hand, the one that catches Geralt’s interest, trails down his chest and abdomen and past his cock. Warmth blooms on Geralt’s cheeks at the sight of skilled fingers drifting down lower and lower until they circle his hole, the tip of a finger delving inside. A lithe whine slips out of Jaskier’s throat. One that he’s usually good to swallow and hide; but glimmering eyes watch him, and Geralt knows for a fact that Jaskier is arming himself with every sound and look he can to lure Geralt back into bed.

His clothes can’t leave him fast enough, but he does languish in the small thought of making his little bird wait. _I’ll be with you soon_ perches on the tip of his tongue. But his cock aches and twitches at the thought of being buried in Jaskier after going the whole day without him—

Jaskier draws up his legs, letting them splay to either side. Getting an uninterrupted look at his lark, Geralt’s breath nearly catches. A single finger delves in and out of him, not going too deep and not curling.

Geralt stalks on to the bed, holding the man’s gaze until a feral smile stretches out on to Jaskier’s lips. His home has found itself between his legs, splayed out on to either side of his hips, cradling him against him. They fit well together like this, like he was made to be here. And he can’t think of many other places he would like to be.

Jaskier’s arms slowly curl around his shoulders, light and loose; not that Geralt would ever move away. He has enough room to uncap the bottle of lube and wet his fingers. He’s not ad deft as the other man, but as soon as the bottle is cast to one side, Geralt reaches down and rubs the tips of two fingers around the man’s hole.

He delights in the hitch of Jaskier’s breath. Any time he can lure a reaction out of him is enough. He’s wet and loose, but not enough. Geralt presses in with two fingers and a moan threatens to spill out from his lips at feeling how attentively Jaskier took to himself. Jaskier’s eyes glaze as his head tilts back and presses against the pillows.

“My little bird flies home and gets himself ready for me,” Geralt rumbles, bowing his head down just enough to trail light kisses along the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw. Whether it’s his hot breath puffing against the man’s tingling skin or his words or the fingers slowly delving into him and stretching him out, Geralt isn’t sure – but he delights in the small tremors that shake through Jaskier and cut his breathing short. “I have such a good little pet, don’t I? You’re so good for me.”

Jaskier’s lips stretch around a moan. “Only for you,” he lilts. His head moves, displacing Geralt’s lips for a moment. He pulls away just enough to watch his lark turn and settle him with familiar blue eyes that have a terrible tendency to make his heart stutter. Even armed with his eyes and his lips and his hands, Jaskier’s words are the most deadly. “I’m all yours.”

Geralt adds another finger, feeling the first hint of tension around him. Jaskier will only ever work himself so far. He wouldn’t take the man as is – he’s not that kind of lover. He wants this body worshipped and if that means spending a few moments dusting kisses along Jaskier’s jaw and neck, and letting his fingers and mouth get him ready, then it’s something he’s able to make peace with.

Jaskier seems a bit less keen. He lurches forward, kissing Geralt deeply. The arms threaded around his shoulders tighten. Soon, familiar thin fingers card through the hair at the back of his hair and _tugs_. A groan rumbles out of the centre of his chest. Jaskier keeps their lips close, even when he parts them. “Show me,” he gasps, letting his legs spread further. “Show me that I’m yours. Fuck me. I’m ready for you.”

Geralt’s fingers slip out of him and Jaskier whines. The bottle of lube has stranded itself somewhere in the waves of blankets rumpled around them. Geralt fishes it out from a fold after a moment and loads an ample amount on to his palm. He reaches down and slicks himself just enough. His cock pulses in his hand, desperate and bobbing. Geralt swallows a moan.

He sets the head of it against Jaskier’s hole and with a sure roll of his hips, they’re joined.

He takes a moment. He always does. He takes a moment to bow around the man below him and shield him. With arms braced on either side of Jaskier’s head and Jaskier’s body firmly pinned below him, quivering and shaking and caught between wanting to make Geralt _move_ and just settle for a moment to get used to the feelings washing over him, Geralt buries his face into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. He feels every shaking breath the man draws in. He listens to the quickening thump of the man’s heart in his chest. He listens to how he swallows thickly before he draws up a leg, hooking his ankle into the small of Geralt’s back and digging in.

 _Move_. _Move **now**._

The first roll of Geralt’s hips is nothing more than that. A soft rocking motion and delving deeper into the man’s body. Jaskier’s whine is lithe. One of his arms falls from Geralt’s shoulders. A familiar hand curls around Geralt’s wrist, his fingers tight and firm as they urge him on. Even if the words can’t seem to work themselves out of his throat, Geralt has gotten good at reading all of the man’s cues.

Geralt’s hips draw back and roll forward, rhythmically moving along with Jaskier’s, until his breath starts to catch. The familiar warmth around him tightens as Jaskier bears down on him. His hips open and leg stretches out to the side; some attempt to lure Geralt deeper. “Make me feel it, darling,” he groans, stretching that neck in front of Geralt, inviting lips and teeth. “Please, _please_ , Geralt. Fuck me.”

They’ve done everything he could think of in this bed. Fast and quick, slow and languid; wrangling Jaskier into all sorts of positions either prone beneath him or perched on his lap, riding him and wringing out the most depraved of sounds. But he’s slowly learning what Jaskier likes, and what he means when he asks for certain things. Geralt balls his fists into the pillows at either side of Jaskier’s head. He braces his arms, straightening them out to perch himself over Jaskier. And his hips quicken, and his cock delves deeper until he brushes the spot inside of Jaskier that has all recognisable words slipping away from him. Geralt fucks into him with everything he has. The cock between them is red and ruddy and leaks on to Jaskier’s abdomen. He could reach down, curl his hand around it, and help Jaskier on his way. But Geralt watches his bird; how his hands clench and unclench, slowly spanning over his own chest and neck and hair, before venturing back down again.

Geralt grunts. “Touch yourself,” he orders. Within seconds, Jaskier has a hand around himself. And the heat around Geralt’s cock tightens and flutters around him. The only sounds in the room are of skin slapping and cut-off groans and attempts at each other’s names.

Bleary blue eyes watch him; the flush slowly crawling up his neck and settling on his face, the first beads of sweat starting to prickle on his skin and drip down the length of his back. Jaskier lifts his chin. “You’re so good to me,” he breathes, not bothering to bite down on the moans that slip out of him. They’re lightening and thinning – he’s close, Geralt realises. He’s tumbling towards the edge and is hell-bent of dragging Geralt over with him. The hand on his cock doesn’t relent; neither does how he lifts his hips to meet every one of Geralt’s thrusts. “You’re so good to me, my darling. You’re so deep inside of me – I feel you everywhere, _gods_. Are you going to come for me? I want to see you lose yourself, darling. Can you do that? You’re close-”

He’ll work on silencing that mouth at some point. And some depraved part of him will mourn the loss of it, because Jaskier’s words spur him along and quicken his hips. Geralt’s head hangs, his brows knitting in concentration. He _is_ close. He’s chasing Jaskier down towards the ledge.

Jaskier stretches out below him, flushed chest and moaning, full lips. “Fill me up, baby. Make me yours. Make everyone here know who I belong to-”

Everyone does know. But it’s nice to drive the point home. A groan slips out of Geralt’s lips. He’s long since stopped caring about how loud he’s being; whether or not the rest of the upstairs can hear him, or even his whole house, he doesn’t care.

Jaskier’s hand quickens around himself until suddenly the heat around Geralt’s cock tightens and stills. Geralt watches cum spurt and splatter all over Jaskier’s abdomen. A choked-off attempt at Geralt’s name spills out of Jaskier’s lips and his eyes roll as pleasure washes over him. Geralt stills hips; letting the man below him settle for a moment.

Jaskier whines. Hands reach up and paw at Geralt’s hips and chest. “Finish inside of me, darling,” he breathes. His legs curl around Geralt’s hips and his ankles cross around the small of his back. Geralt’s thrusts pick back up again. His breath catches as Jaskier tightens himself around him, trying to lure him closer and closer—

“Come in me. Let them know who I belong to. I’m _yours_ —”

Geralt’s hips finally stutter and stay flush against Jaskier’s as he comes. His arms shake and he has to lower himself down on to his forearms, burying his groan into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. Familiar arms curl around his shoulders, gathering him close against his lark’s chest, and whispering sweet lilting things against the shell of his ear.

_I’m yours, aren’t I darling? All yours. And you’re mine. Everyone knows that, don’t they? And if they don’t, we’ll remind them. Hmm?_

He gathers what he can of his breath. Geralt slips out of him, pressing his whine into the skin of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier has enough energy left to roll them both on to their sides, but neither of them is too keen to draw away from each other just yet. He likes Jaskier when he’s prone and sated and soft. It’s too much energy to even try and think of slipping away, to grab something to clean themselves with. And one of Jaskier’s legs curls around his, pinning them to the bed. They can catch their breath for a moment, at the very least.

Because the sweat soaking his skin is starting to cool, and with winter rolling in and chilling the nights, he isn’t that keen on sleeping bare and above the sheets.

Jaskier reaches out, gentle carding Geralt’s hair back. He’s still buried in the man’s neck, breathing in and scenting all of the smells that like to cling to his skin; the underlying smell of Jaskier beneath citrus and vanilla soap and lotion, and a slight tang of sweat. It’s too much and not enough. A firm arm slowly coils its way around Jaskier’s waist, gathering the man close. He can’t part with him, not yet.

There will be a moment when the chill of the night will be too much, and the mess on both of them will start to dry and stick them together. Then he’ll consider moving. But until then, Geralt hums a quiet noise into Jaskier’s neck, content to just lie here for a moment. He waits for the day where Jaskier will strike. His little songbird is more of a shrike than anything else; waiting for its opportunity to pluck him from the ground and impale him on a spire. Maybe that moment will never come. But if it does, then his last few days and weeks and months would have been eventful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...This update is 12k words. Hmm. 
> 
> **Updated Tags! 
> 
> Minor Knifeplay (for a brief second, but just in case)  
> Biting & Marking  
> Possessive Talk/Smut  
> Possessive!Geralt  
> Dom!Geralt

Despite him making grand efforts to keep his work at home, there are times he’s lured out into the boroughs. It isn’t his favourite thing in the world, mostly because he hates the noise and the blinding lights and the effort he has to muster to perform in front of others. If Geralt had his way, his contacts would come to him; in his own house, in his own office, where he would be able to slacken his shoulders and breathe normally.

But a lot of people are dancing along the line of being friend or enemy nowadays and he would rather not have his personal address blasted out for all to hear. No matter how many men like Eskel and Lambert he has glowering behind him, someone will be brave, or stupid, enough to try and follow the White Wolf into his den.

Downtown is blinding and accosting on all of his senses. He hates it. It’s too loud and bright and the people that swarm it are the worst kind of people – and Geralt has met some awful characters over the years. So he formulates a plan in his mind as Coën takes the last turn towards their client’s apartment block. _Get in, see what he wants, and get out_. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He can have all the simple plans in the world and there will always be something – someone will get snarky and pull a gun, and then next thing Geralt knows, he has doubled the number of problems he has on his hands.

There’s a small huff of laughter from the other side of the car. Catching sight of Jaskier lounging quite happily in the backseat, the man takes another drag of a cigarette. His window is cracked open slightly – a small miracle in that Jaskier does what he likes, and when Geralt said that he didn’t want his cars smelling of cigarette smoke, Jaskier laughed in his face and lit the cigarette regardless.

A plume of smoke wisps out of Jaskier’s nose, lulling around him for a moment before he blows it towards the window. “You worry too much,” he says lowly, his eyes checking on the partition between the backseat and the driver’s for a moment. It’s rare that Geralt even has it up. He likes Coën. The other man always has a collection of things to talk about, and Coën is one of the very few people in Geralt’s circle that he doesn’t want to glower at until they shut up.

But Coën has learned the hard way that Jaskier has wandering hands and isn’t too particular about who hears him when he has Geralt to himself in an enclosed space. So as soon as Jaskier slipped into the backseat with him, taking his usual lounging spot of the other side of the car, Coën pulled up the divide and that was the end of that.

Geralt regards the man for a moment. “And you don’t worry at all. I should just send you to do these things,” he rumbles, looking out of the window to the blurring neon lights. Even in a residential area like this, somehow downtown still manages to infect it with light and noise.

Jaskier hums, taking another drag of his cigarette. “They wanted to meet you,” he replies easily enough, tilting his head back and letting the smoke wash over him. Geralt arches an eyebrow. The man’s promise not to let smoke acrid the car seems to have disappeared altogether. Not that Jaskier has much regard for anything Geralt owns. _You can always afford to replace it_ he would comment. The comment, even now, is perched on the tip of his tongue as his head rolls and he looks at Geralt with a quirked lip. “I’m here for moral support.”

“You’re here to be a bother,” Geralt grumbles. The car starts to slow, pulling up outside a towering block of apartments. It’s a nice building; modern and dazzling. All of the towers of other bosses tend to look the same after a while, but he can thank the gods at least he isn’t being dragged to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

Jaskier’s laugh is light and lilting. He doesn’t reply, mainly because he must know that what Geralt said is true, and he goes back to haphazardly looking outside. He might be lounging in his seat, seemingly bored-stiff of wherever he’s been dragged to, but he’s aware. Nothing seems to catch him out.

And having an extra pair of eyes doesn’t hurt. The car keeps humming underneath them, even while parked. Coën knows to keep the engine running, just in case they need to make a quick exit. But the man does knock against the partition. _We’re here._

The gun nestled against Geralt’s waist almost scalds his skin, but his hand drifts to his side to make sure that it’s still there. It’s loaded. He never leaves without a loaded gun. And while he has guards and his brothers follow him everywhere, he _can_ look after himself. Vesemir taught him everything he ever needed to know.

Jaskier leans over, pressing a chaste kiss to the arch of Geralt’s cheek. Wisps of smoke sour the air, but having the familiar warm feeling of Jaskier’s lips against his skin blooms heat in him. If he weren’t that keen on seeing what in the name of the gods this client wants, he would wind an arm around Jaskier and tell Coën to bring them home. The small glint in Jaskier’s eye tells him that the man is thinking the same thing. And those lips don’t budge. If anything, they start peppering kisses, trailing down towards the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt reaches up, catching the man’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Jaskier hums, displeased at having his route interrupted, but he sighs. “Be quick,” he murmurs, hooding his eyes and glancing down to Geralt’s lips. “Or else I’m going to have to go home by myself.”

Coën won’t budge unless Geralt says so. Jaskier might be in Geralt’s bed every night, wrapping the man carefully, but securely, around his little finger, but Geralt is still the one in charge. And everyone knows that.

He hums, pecking a quick kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. He lets his lips linger for a moment before pulling away. There’s a glint in Jaskier’s eyes that he’ll be thinking about throughout the meeting, waiting to return to the man and rush home with him.

Stepping out into the street is almost painful, but he manages to sneak in one last lingering look of Jaskier. The other man returns to his sprawl, taking a long drag of his cigarette and letting the smoke shroud him.

* * *

The first thing that twitches his ears is his name. It’s not shouted, but manages to clip through the hum and murmur of conversation flooding the sidewalk around him. Dozens of people drift by, heading in all directions; some with their arms laden in shopping bags while others, armoured in suits and with briefcases sheathed to their sides, barrel towards the many law and business firm offices scattered throughout the quarter.

A car pulls up, rolling to a stop. The back window scrolls all the way down, revealing a woman inside. It’s not the strangest way Jaskier has ever been approached. He has been through stranger; people approaching him at bars and at functions, people who have hired his services for one thing and actually wanted another.

He regards the car, and those in it, for a moment, cocking his head slightly. It’s a nice car; a sports type, he thinks, coated in black that somehow manages to catch the sunlight and gleam. The woman inside is as glamorous as her car; draped in white and gold and with hair neatly pulled back from her face and braided around the crown of her head. Jaskier schools his expression into something neutral. The woman’s name might escape him, but he recognises the Lioness anywhere. He inclines his head. “Morning,” he lilts, scoping the street. People still bustle around, moving around him like parting water. None of them take the slightest notice.

Calanthe’s lips thin into a faint line. Even though her eyes are shielded by sunglasses, he can tell how fiercely she must be staring at him. She inclines her head. “I want a word.” And her voice is as clipped and measured as he expected it to be, but still luring in the kind of way bosses have when they know people can’t, or won’t, say no to them. It’s a tone that Jaskier has heard laced through many people’s voices; people who shouldn’t be in the positions that they’ve managed to climb to. And then there’s Calanthe.

Jaskier looks down the street, taking a measured breath as he mulls over his choices. He could keep walking, and run the risk of Calanthe personally gunning him down in the middle of the street. And he hates to think about it, but no one passing would even blink. Downtown has a particular reputation about it; a maelstrom of activity where boroughs overlap and borders blur.

Calanthe already has the door opening for him. He never had much choice to begin with.

Jaskier ducks into the car and blinks at the harsh change of light. He lets his eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the car. The seats are plush leather that pillows him as he sits back. No sooner has he settled into his seat, the car pulls off. It’s nothing more than a languid drive; though Jaskier keeps his eyes on the streets, quietly mapping out his path to retrace it later, should Calanthe try and bring him outside of downtown.

The woman chuckles. “I wanted a word, not your head.”

Jaskier’s lips thin. “I imagine if you wanted that, you would have it already.”

Calanthe hums. Through her sunglasses, as they catch the occasional ray of light that streaks into the car’s window, he meets her eyes. They watch him, regarding every move he makes; whether it’s to breathe, or keep his breathing level, or how his hands sit on his lap. He wills his fingers not to fidget. His blade presses against his calf, just out of reach. But by the time Calanthe would lurch over the back of the car, towards him, he could have it out and nicking her throat within seconds—

“I heard you’re off the market,” she lulls after a time, letting her head tilt. Draped in white and gold silk, armoured in a suit that fits her well, she wears the money she owns. Jaskier’s nostrils flare at the citric sharp scent of perfume slowly trying to coat the roof of his mouth and suffocate. “In more ways than one.”

A smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “People are terrible gossips,” he concedes. Bosses have ears everywhere, but Calanthe has a certain talent of picking up things quicker, even before they’ve been made public knowledge.

The laugh that seems to force itself out of the woman is short and more of a huff. “You’ve hardly been shy.” She lifts her chin. Seated at Jaskier’s feet are a handful of shopping bags. With the gold flowing in from jobs, and a lot more time on his hands not having to chase down contracts, he’s been languishing in downtown and what the storefronts have to offer. That, and Geralt is ever so forgetful of his wallet these days. Calanthe arches an eyebrow. “So, you’re the Wolf’s pet now?”

It’s one way of looking at it. “The Wolf’s pet in the backseat of the Lioness’ car,” Jaskier lulls, letting his head tilt slightly. “What would people think?” People would notice. Even though the streets are full of crowds that could brush past him without even blinking, too busy on their way somewhere to do something, someone would notice. And word spreads like fire taking to kindling. Before he even managed to get back to the house, even through the front door, he would have to contend with a wolf with his teeth bared.

Then again, the Lioness might have downed him if he had refused. So who’s to say that Jaskier ever really had a choice?

* * *

_No_. He wouldn’t part with his ports. Such a simple statement that blew up in his face, scalding his skin and blinding his eyes for a moment. Vesemir taught him everything; how to handle a meeting, how to lure the right kind of people in and cut off the others, and how to avoid potential deals from going badly. It’s just a shame that, sometimes, things run over each other and overlap – in order to prevent a deal from going badly, he would have to part with three of his major ports, and that wouldn’t do him, or his favourite contacts, any good. So he took out the shears and started cutting.

A fragment of downtown won’t be happy with him, but he hardly ever dwells or stalks down there anyway. They can snarl and tear at each other’s throats, but he won’t have any part in it. Coën lingers in the house, making sure that they weren’t followed home. And it’s been almost eighteen hours, but the wolves like to be sure. Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye, doing his millionth lap of the house with his hand sitting comfortably against his holstered gun.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Get some sleep,” he rumbles, taking a quick glance outside. The sun is starting to fall beneath the ridge of buildings nearby.

Coën peers out of the office window, looking out on to a small garden to the back of the house. Others lined up on either side of them have filled theirs with playgyms and swing-sets. Geralt’s chest tightens at the sight. The kind of life he couldn’t give Ciri, sheltered away far from where any of this poison work could touch something as pure and good as her.

Coën sets his lips into a thin line. “Alright,” he grunts, rubbing at his eyes. All of them have prowled through the house, and outside of it too. Lambert took the first watch, then Eskel, then Coën. The last wolf stretches and flexes his back, wincing at the sharp crack of joints and groan of muscle. He pads over to Geralt, sitting slumped at his desk. He pats a hand on to the man’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

Geralt hums. He turns his chair just enough so that he doesn’t have to look at the scattered collection of papers staining his desk. Reports and details of new arms shipments coming in, the state of the ports and harbours under their control. It’s a lot, and there’s more to come. His eyes strain and he buries his face into his hands, hoping that if he stays here, in the dark and just breathing, maybe the world will just go away.

Familiar hands smooth over and catch his shoulders from behind. Geralt doesn’t even flinch, but rather, sighs into his hands and leans back into the touch. He sits back until the back of the chair presses against him and his head rests against Jaskier’s chest. The man above him laughs. “You need to rest,” Jaskier lulls. His fingers press into the swell of muscles along Geralt’s shoulders, slowly working the tension out.

Sleep has been evading him and his contact’s words swarm in his ear. People getting braver, asking for more and testing their boss’ resolve. And Geralt will listen, because Vesemir raised him right. But there are times, like when cocky and brash younglings start peacocking in front of him, that all he wants to do is deal with them as quickly as he can so he can sleep all of it off.

Jaskier’s hands help, if just a small bit. The worst of the tension slips from his shoulders as his songbird smoothes his hands over his shoulders and the join of his neck. Slowly, his eyelids grow heavy and his lungs can fill again without his chest hurting.

“People will pull you in all sorts of directions and before you know it, you’re drawn and quartered,” Jaskier hums, digging his fingertips into Geralt’s shoulders. There are knots curled all over him. He can feel them as soon as he wakes up to when he goes to sleep. Knots that didn’t exist when Vesemir was here, lording over the boroughs and keeping everyone in line. And now, Vesemir is gone and Geralt is left behind, eyeing the brave and foolish barons and kings of their own kingdoms toe the lines of borders, testing and trying for a reaction.

Maybe he should do the same as the Old Wolf – disappear in the night with instruction for someone else to take over. Eskel, maybe. Though he does have a tendency to be kind and merciful to those who bare their necks in submission. And by the time Geralt has even left the borough, the whole place would be up in flames if he left Lambert in charge. The Wolf pup is too young and too cocky. A few more years and with all of that trained out of him, then maybe. The question is can Geralt last that long?

His office isn’t where he wants to be. It smells like other people and paper and leather from chairs, and he just wants to be somewhere else. Jaskier can read him well enough to know when to let his hands slip away from him, if for a moment. “Come,” he instructs, catching Geralt’s upper arm and tugging him away from his desk.

He blinks at the sight of dark skies outside. Days and nights have drifted by without much notice. Time is slipping away. Jaskier’s hand doesn’t budge from where he’s caught the other man as he leads him through the house; away from his office and the ground floor, where others have been and stalked throughout the day. Each step upstairs is a small effort on his part, but Jaskier doesn’t seem in any rush.

Most of the house is cloaked in darkness, with only the hallway light upstairs left on. Eskel and Lambert are out, taking one of the cars to prowl downtown and its bars. They won’t be home for a few hours; under explicit instructions to at least _try_ and be quiet when they come back in. Geralt really doesn’t want to stir awake to furniture being knocked over or scuffed and staggered footfalls in the hallway.

The sight of his own bedroom loosens his joints. They move that bit better with the promise of rest. Jaskier closes the door behind them as he lightly nudges Geralt towards the bed. “Sit.” His voice is light and nothing more than a rasp, but Geralt obeys it nonetheless. His sets on the buttons of his shirt, shucking it off and dropping it to the side of the bed. It’s forgotten about almost as soon as it hits the ground. Shoes follow, with slacks and socks, and he lets his hair tumble down on to his shoulders from when it’s tied up. And even the roots of his hair hurt with tension.

His ears twitch at the sound of the bath running. A gentle glow of light spills out through the small crack in the door. Geralt cranes his neck, trying to get a good look. The familiar smell of vanilla and desert roses come out, luring him up and to shuffle towards the bathroom; but the door opens and Jaskier stands in the portal, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He curls a finger at Geralt. An invitation – or order – to come over.

Getting to his feet takes more effort than he’s happy with admitting. His bones ache and his muscles groan, and the joints in his ankles and knees click with every step he takes towards the other man. Jaskier’s eyes run up and down his body. “They damaged my poor wolf,” he tisks, reaching out to skim his fingertips along the swell of Geralt’s chest. Skin marred by faint lines. No matter how much colour he gains from standing out in the sun, lines all over his torso and legs won’t get any darker, and they stand out that much better.

Jaskier tilts his head. He likes looking at Geralt. Some mornings, Geralt has woken up to Jaskier already awake, with his fingers mapping out every stretch of his skin. He surely must have Geralt chartered at this point. Jaskier is sure where he touches, reaching out and knowing how lightly or firmly Geralt wants him to touch him, and what he might need.

This is how Jaskier likes to unwind after one of his jobs; a dimly lit bathroom, shut off from the rest of the world, with the air heavily scented with oils and lotions. The door clicks shut behind them, and Geralt’s shoulders drop. The bath is already filled, and candles dotted around the room lit and flickering.

Familiar fingers brush against the small of Geralt’s back, ghosting against his skin and a shiver shudders down his spine. Jaskier has become deft at knowing just where to touch him, and he’s ruthless with how he applies his touch, whether it’s wringing pleasure or tension out of him. Geralt takes a steady breath. The air is sweet and musky with lotions and candle wicks burning.

Jaskier leads him to the bath, motioning for him to strip off the last of his clothes. Geralt follows the silent order, dropping and forgetting about them the moment they touch the tiled floor.

The bath wrings a light moan out of him; it’s just warm enough to bloom through his skin and muscles and reach all the way down into his bones. The smells are just light enough to not be smothering. Jaskier can be quite fond of his oils and lotions, and they coat the roof of Geralt’s mouth whenever he presses kisses against the man’s neck or against the pulse-point on his wrist.

Jaskier brings over a small stool, perching at the head of the bath. He waits for Geralt to settle, to loosen a contented breath as he lets the warm water lap at him. He reclines back, letting his head rest against the lip of the bath. Opening his eyes, he looks up and spots Jaskier sitting patiently for him, hands curled on his thighs. Waiting. A small smile curls along Geralt’s lip. He enjoys the quieter moments; the two of them spirited away in their own world, away from the glare of whatever it outside.

Familiar fingers reach out and card through his hair. Even his scalp is sore and tight. A small wince flashes over his face; one that he tries to smother but Jaskier has always been quick to notice his expressions. He clicks his tongue. It’s a sharp and harsh noise in the peaceful room, one that has Geralt hanging on whatever he’s about to say. It should scare him, how easily Jaskier commands control and attention over him. It’s not how the world outside views them. And that’s for the best. His songbird is nothing more than a shrike, singing his lovely songs and spearing enemies to posts for all to see. A pretty clear message if Geralt says so himself. The White Wolf has a bird of prey in his employ, one that is frequently flying his cage.

But here, alone, when it’s just the two of them, Geralt sinks into the warm bath and lets his songbird card his fingers through his hair, wringing out the worst of the tension already. He breathes out a moan, letting it linger in the air for a moment. Jaskier is quiet. He’s quiet with most things, attentive and doing his job, whatever it may be. Right now, it’s making sure that his wolf isn’t too badly damaged.

Jaskier does what he can, threading his fingers through Geralt’s hair and combing out the worst of the knots. He hums while he works, lulling a gentle song out from his throat. Geralt’s eyelids droop and flicker closed. His control and guard slipping away is always a strange feeling. He’s worn them for so long, tensing his muscles and hunching his shoulders, just in case anyone with a gun got a bit too brave or cocky. And now, within seconds of Jaskier touching him, it all slips away.

Jaskier palms some water into Geralt’s hair, wetting it and curling through the soft strands. He pushes his fingertips into the man’s scalp, working out the last tendrils of tension hanging on. “Who did you meet with?” he asks after a while, continuing with his work. Jaskier has a set routine for himself; when he comes home, sometimes speckled in blood, he sheds his clothes and heads straight for the bath, soaking in a mixture of oils and perfumes he knows will unwind his tense muscles and soothe any cuts and bruises he might have gotten. With Geralt, it’s different. He isn’t overly fond of strong-smelling things, and the man doesn’t know how to relax unless he’s plied with enough wine and kisses from his songbird.

There’s something lilting through Jaskier’s words, something that has Geralt’s eyes opening. He cranes his head back just enough to look up at his lark, watching the cool expression gathered on to his face. “Why?” he rumbles. A small smirk quirks the corner of his lip. “Are you planning your next hunt?”

He’s killed people because of less. Not under Geralt, of course. Well, not to Geralt’s knowledge. Everyone he has sent his shrike after has brought it upon themselves; insurgents and brash would-be usurpers. But he’s heard enough whispers to know that Jaskier would gladly kill someone for even brushing against him in the street provided if he was having enough of a shitty day.

And the thought of someone causing his wolf unnecessary stress, keeping him away from him for most of the day, Geralt can see tightly-reined in fury shrouded behind the man’s face. He lifts one arm from the bath, reaching back just enough to catch Jaskier’s chin between two fingers. The man doesn’t move away. He lets himself be caught. “I’m fine, my love,” he rumbles, hoping that some of his words manage to worm their way behind the barrier Jaskier is pulling in front of himself.

Jaskier holds his gaze for as long as he’s able, letting out a small sigh and turning away from Geralt’s hold. “They shouldn’t be testing you like that,” he replies simply, going back to carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. He reaches for a bottle of shampoo; something musky that smells like desert roses and the barest tang of orange. Jaskier’s fingers are sure things, lathering as much soap as he can through Geralt’s hair, working around the knots and entwined tangled strands, slowly luring whatever lingering tension he can out of the man. And Geralt sinks against the bath, breath slowing and deepening as he lets Jaskier do whatever he likes.

His words sit with him. If he had his own way, Jaskier would be perched beside him in meetings. Some insurgents he has met with over the months and years have had their snarling dogs behind them, or set their guns or blades on the table between them. All Geralt needs is his little bird perched beside him, quiet and observing, waiting for the first person to make the first slight. Maybe then the message will get through to people – Geralt is here to stay and they better settle on it.

Jaskier washes his hair attentively, as focused as he is with most things. He can’t see the man, but he can only imagine he has the tip of his tongue poked out through his lips. He cleans his guns and sharpens his blades like that, hunched over himself in chairs, a single leg propped up, sitting in a way that has Geralt worrying about the state of his back. Every touch lavished over him is as sure as the last, knowing exactly where to go and what to do. When Jaskier washes his hair out, his hands drift down towards his neck and shoulders. He still threatens to hunch up, to instinctively duck away and grab at whoever is reaching for him. Growing up with two other brothers will do that. But Jaskier gentles his fingers, palming along every tense muscle he can find.

Everything slips away the moment Jaskier lightly digs the tips of his fingers into Geralt’s shoulders. Smells coil around him and he sinks further into the bath, letting the warm wisping water lap at his chin.

“You’re the White Wolf,” Jaskier mumbles suddenly. The words are soft, but hold a slight edge to them. It’s enough to lure Geralt back to wakefulness. His lark’s hands don’t stop rubbing at his shoulders. “I think people should understand the message loud and clear by now.”

Geralt hums, quirking an eyebrow. “And what message is that?”

Jaskier tilts his head. “You’re in charge,” he says firmly, “of everything. Every port bringing in arms and drugs is under you. Every time a car crosses borders, you know about it and let it happen. They should be cowering in front of you.”

And that’s the difference between them. He doesn’t want fear; he wants respect and reverence, and sometimes, the line between that and fear has to be blurred. And Jaskier drags as many people as he can to that line every time he goes on his contracts, leaving whatever mark he can behind to emphasise that the White Wolf is watching and baring his teeth.

Geralt rolls his head back, looking up at his lark. “That’s why I have you,” he lulls, reaching up again to dust the backs of his fingers along the man’s jaw. It clenches underneath his touch. His bird is a flighty one, eager to extend talons and mount heads on spikes. Geralt lifts his chin. “I have you to make sure they get that message.”

Jaskier’s hands pause. For a moment, he looks down at the man stretched out in front of him, face blank and eyes shrouded. After a moment, his lips thin. He leans down, luring a kiss out of Geralt. It’s awkward and nothing more than a press of lips, even with Geralt’s hand trying to catch Jaskier’s shoulder and bring him closer. One of Jaskier’s hands slips away from him, and a chill is left behind. A small whine slips out of him.

The kiss lingers; soft warm lips pressed together and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt’s toes curl, the tips of his fingers tremble and tingle as warmth blooms through him.

And then he feels it.

A thin, cold line pressed against the side of his throat. A knife’s blade sharpened and sitting comfortably against his skin, not quite pushing, but resting. Jaskier pulls away, but doesn’t stray too far. He hovers above Geralt, his other hand reaching up to run over the side of Geralt’s cheek. “I had an offer come in today,” his lark mumbles, letting his eyes venture to the gulping line of Geralt’s throat, to the glint of his blade. “The Lioness had a very interesting proposition for me.”

 _Stay calm_. A move from either of them – Geralt trying to dart away or Jaskier’s blade pushing against him – and it’s a death sentence. Images and notes blink in front of him. _Attentive little songbird_ , he can’t help but think, resting a blade’s edge against his carotid. Jaskier is nothing but efficient. He doesn’t linger or play with his hunts, and never spends more time than is necessary with them.

Geralt holds the man’s gaze for as long as he can, steadying his breathing so he isn’t pushing against the blade’s edge with every exhale. When he speaks, it’s with his usual contented rumble. “A fair trade,” Geralt lulls. “A White Wolf for a Lioness.”

That does manage to crack the man. Geralt watches the smallest of frowns knit Jaskier’s brows, too quick to be brushed off and replaced with his usually blank expression. Once he’s been unearthed, he does tend to wear his emotions. Even through the warm glow of the bathroom and the wisps of steam, Geralt can tell every blink of emotion on the man’s face. “Do you think I would?” Jaskier asks, tightening his grip around the pommel of his dagger. The blade doesn’t move, but Geralt knows how easy it would be for Jaskier to whip his arm to the side and be done with it. He would fly out one of the windows and disappear into the night, and the Lioness would keep him safe. Jaskier leans down again, the tips of their noses brushing. “Do you think that the Lioness of Cintra would ever lure me away from you?”

Jaskier already knows his answer. And they both know that Jaskier is still here, perched beside Geralt, and quite possibly told the Lioness of Cintra to go fuck herself. But the threat has always been there – his songbird doesn’t have to stay. He could very easily go with the changing wind. And Geralt is waiting for that moment, whenever it comes. If someone turned on him, upended his house and had his body floating down a river, his bird would be long-gone. Self-preservation. No one in this line of work seems to be allowed to have feelings. But Geralt’s chest tightens at the thought of Jaskier being in the same space as the Lioness – not because she offered him another way of life, but because of the Lioness’ ability to bat and claw at birds.

The blade moves, tilting up towards the ride of Geralt’s jaw and sitting quite comfortably against his skin. Jaskier draws it flush, shaving some stubble starting to grow again there. He hums. “I told her I wasn’t available,” Jaskier lulls, retracting the blade only to dip it in water and return to his task of smoothening out the wolf’s jaw. “I was quite happy with the contract I had. And she _did_ try to lure me away. Gold, downtown penthouses overlooking the cities. It all sounded terribly alluring, if I didn’t have it already.”

Jaskier bends down, pressing his lips against the shell of Geralt’s ear. The blade whines as it’s slid across his skin. It only pauses for a brief moment, when Jaskier’s words dust against his ear and Geralt swallows down on a shudder. “You already give me everything, don’t you? So why would I go to someone else?”

Jaskier hasn’t been _bought_ , no matter what other members of his house seem to think. In either of his professions, money would be a contract. And if someone were to run out of money, then they wouldn’t have a songbird anymore. Jaskier hasn’t been bought. He isn’t bound here by gold – well, not wholly. Geralt’s eyes still sting at every credit card report he’s handed at the end of the month. But he gives Jaskier what he can because he wants to. He delights in the sparkle in his lark’s eyes at the sight of everything he could, and can, have with Geralt.

And then there’s Geralt himself. Jaskier kisses behind the shell of his ear, along a small sliver of skin just before his hairline. A shudder does manage to shake through him. He’s owned, wholly and truly. In all the ways Geralt thinks he has Jaskier, it’s the other way around. Jaskier has a hold over him that has Geralt scrambling to even get on to his feet. His bird has such beautiful eyes that dance and glint anytime Geralt looks his way, or presses kisses along the arch of his cheekbone, in full sight of others.

The blade disappears just as Jaskier’s lips meet the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t move. He’s not that naive to think he’s safe just yet. It isn’t until he hears a soft clink of metal to his side, knowing that Jaskier has set the blade down somewhere, but still within an arm’s reach, does he move. His arm darts up, curling around Jaskier’s shoulders and bringing him close. Geralt catches a kiss from him. Something deep and luring a moan out of Jaskier’s throat. He can feel the man’s fingers curling into his skin.

The water ripples as he moves, lapping against the side of the bath. He has to turn and crane around, but he’s able to deepen their kiss and glide his tongue against Jaskier’s. It’s desperate and all-consuming in the way their kisses usually are. Even in the morning, he’s loath to stop peppering light kisses along Jaskier’s bare shoulders and back, before he’s pulled into the world outside of their bed. Jaskier is intoxicating and will be the death of him, one way or another.

When they part, when the air grows thin and they gasp as their lips part, Jaskier frames his face in his hands. “You’re everything to me,” he whispers, keeping their lips just shy from touching. Geralt’s eyelids flutter closed, letting warmth wash over him. “And I want people to know that. I want them to revere you and know that they’re not to come near _anything_ that belongs to you.”

Geralt’s eyes open at that. Jaskier looks at him with such an intense stare, making sure that his words reach him and settle. And they have. Geralt reaches up, dusting the back of his fingers against Jaskier’s cheek. “Is that what you want, hmm?” he mumbles, letting his eyes fall to Jaskier’s lips. They’re soft and full, and luring him closer. “Do you want everyone to know that you belong to me? That you’re mine, and that they’re to leave you alone?”

A small shiver trembles through Jaskier. His eyes hood and his gaze drops. They’re close, sharing one warm breath, and he wants to be closer. He wants to entangle himself in the other man and not have to let go. Geralt’s hand curls around the back of Jaskier’s head, fingers threading through his hair.

His fingers knot in Jaskier’s hair, not too tight, but enough to have the man’s lips parting and his brow knitting together. “Do you want to show them?” Geralt’s voice lowers, rumbling out of the core of his chest. “Parade around the streets tomorrow with my marks littered on you?”

It’s one step away from hauling Jaskier into his meeting room and having him over the table, with his whole house and associates gathered around. And honestly, the image blinks in front of him, and he puts it away. Maybe for another time.

Jaskier’s moan is light, barely more than a harsh breath out. He nods, as much as he’s able to with Geralt’s hand knotted in his hair. “Take power,” Jaskier gasps. It’s an effort to pry his eyes open, blinking as he searches for Geralt’s. When he meets the man’s gaze, he burrows his words into the back of Geralt’s skull and lets them ignite. “Show them how much you own and control.”

He’s not a cruel man. He can be when he needs to be. When young pups get a bit too brash and start toeing the line of borders that have existed before they were even born. And with Jaskier, he can claw and bite and snarl, fucking into him harshly when he begs for it. But he’ll never be cruel to Jaskier. If he wants to be owned, it’s going to be as a worshipped deity and nothing less.

He’s out of the bath in seconds, hauling Jaskier with him. As soon as he steps out of it, he gathers the man close, luring him into a deep kiss, lips parted and tongues gliding across each other’s. Jaskier’s fingers curl against his chest, nails digging into the skin slightly and leaving welts. Geralt moans around Jaskier’s tongue. He pulls away for a moment, muttering an order on to Jaskier’s lips. “Strip.”

He watches it dig and settle into Jaskier’s eyes, and fumbling hands start unbuttoning his shirt and shedding it within seconds. Geralt steps away, ignoring the whine worming out of Jaskier’s throat as he stalks around the bathroom, pinching out every candle the man had lovingly lit. Some part of him, long since backed into a corner and won’t be returning for some time, winces. He’ll pay Jaskier back in kindness the moment this scalding heat is wormed out of his veins. But for now, his hackles are lifting and his blood is starting to boil. The first thrum of pleasure hums through him, stirring his cock and warming his skin. He grabs at a towel, quickly drying his chest and legs as Jaskier struggles with the last of his clothes.

They drop to the floor, forgotten about the moment they leave Jaskier’s hands. When he stands, full-height with his bare body on display for Geralt, he hums. Golden eyes drift down, looking over and taking in every stretch of skin and muscle he’s familiarised himself with over the past couple of weeks and months. Jaskier’s breathing hitches when he reaches out, dusting his fingertips along his stomach. It sinks in, a short breath then blowing out from Jaskier’s plump lips.

It’s strange. The first time he’s seen the man’s grip on control starting to loosen. Sand starts slipping over to Geralt’s side of the scale, and he’ll be here for Jaskier even when it returns to his side when all of this is over.

There are marks left already. Faint scars from past contracts that have gone awry. Geralt has spent his nights and some mornings tending to them, kissing and touching them with reverence. He might be scarred, but Jaskier is still alive and breathing and warm.

His thumb drifts over the worst of them; a lighter line, barely half a finger’s length, just over the arch of Jaskier’s hip. Where a knife almost punctured his intestine, leaving him in a hospital bed for a few days while his body knitted itself back together again. It was a time before Geralt. And in the time now, where Jaskier is with him in his bed and by his side, nothing will ever happen to him again.

He glances up, meeting Jaskier’s eye. “If I were someone else,” he rumbles, voice rasping and low and luring a small shiver out of the other man, “I would have all of my lieutenants gathered in my office and watch as I take you over my desk.” It’s how the other rulers of the boroughs treat their playthings. And that’s how they lose them days or weeks or months after. Geralt steps closer, hooking a knuckle underneath Jaskier’s chin and tilting his head up, making sure those lovely ocean coloured eyes stay on him. “But I want you here, just for me. You can make all the noise you want; I’m sure my brothers have already heard you before tonight. I’ll mark you in whatever way you want, leaving enough proof for people to know that you’re mine.”

Jaskier’s mouth parts. His eyes leave his, drifting down to linger on Geralt’s lips. They’re close. If he were still grasping on to control, he would have leaned forward and kissed him already. But he stays exactly where he is. “I want them to see.” His voice is nothing but a whisper. “I want them to see how powerful you are.”

Geralt hums, leaning forward to peck a quick, sweet kiss to Jaskier’s jaw. A small whine slips out of the man’s throat. Geralt’s lips linger on his skin for a moment, breathing in the scent of him.

A moment passes, the air thickening and almost suffocating. “Go to our room,” Geralt growls, setting the points of his teeth against Jaskier’s jaw. “Lay yourself out for me.”

* * *

He takes his time stalking Jaskier out into their room. Candle wicks pinched and snuffed out, and the bath empty, Geralt catches a glance at himself in the mirror. At one point, a scrawny lithe boy might have blinked back at him. A shy pup who clung to his elder’s side, watching everyone with wide-eyed caution and was never seen without a guard.

The person who looks back at him now is different. He has filled out in his adulthood, muscle earned from doing the more manual side of the job, training in how to fight back when someone gets a bit too brave or stupid. And the ghosts of marks left behind on his skin look like constellations, pale and white and standing out against the rest of him. Even his face has changed. It’s hardened and the shy wolf pup was just known to be quiet. People even thought of him as a mute for a few years, almost falling over themselves when he chose to spoke a few rumbling words at meetings.

He leaves his reflection and stalks out into the bedroom, flicking the light off behind him and shutting the bathroom door. His eyes stray towards his bed and the sight that waits for him on it. Jaskier’s familiar frame stretched out among rumpled bedsheets, somewhat kicked down to the foot of the bed, while the man lounges back against a hoard of pillows stacked up against the headboard.

His hands have already started to wander, the devious little thing. The corner of Geralt’s lip twitches into a smirk as he watches. Jaskier’s eyes are hooded, but the colour of them isn’t dimmed at all. Even through the dim moonlight stretching into the room, he can still make out the ocean-swirled eyes meeting his, holding his gaze as Jaskier reaches down to palm at his hardening cock.

Geralt stalks forward, prowling towards the foot of the bed. With each measured step he takes, Jaskier’s breath quickens slightly and he lifts one of his legs up and splays it to the side. Stretched out and on display, waiting for his wolf to come and see to him.

Geralt sets one knee on to the bed and prowls up and over Jaskier. The man sinks further down, already making a small move to tilt his head back and to the side, inviting teeth and fingers.

Geralt kisses what he can as he trails up Jaskier’s body. Shivers tremble through him already, with each light dust of Geralt’s lips over his warm skin. Jaskier always smells nice, and Geralt likes tasting it on his tongue. He breathes in as much of the man’s scent as he can, letting it linger over the roof of his mouth. It’s intoxicating and is almost enough to get him drunk.

A light whine slips out of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt kisses wherever he can, but obviously not in the places his little lark needs him. A smile stretches across his lips. Wet, lingering kisses pepper up the length of Jaskier, trailing up until he reaches the centre of the man’s chest. “I’m sorry, my darling,” Geralt mumbles against his skin, lips never moving too far away. His words ghost over Jaskier, luring trembles out of him that shake through his whole body. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt watches his hands gather and fist clumps of bedsheets. The corner of his lip quirks. “I should have been more attentive.”

He prowls over Jaskier, covering the man’s body with his own. He could roll away or unseat Geralt if he wanted to, but from the way he melts back into the mattress, stretching his arms up over his head, it looks like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Geralt sets his lips to the hollow of his neck, feeling the man’s breath start to thin. “When I’m done with you,” he mumbles, letting the bare hint of teeth scrape along the juncture of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, “no one will be in any doubt about who you belong to.”

Jaskier moans, and it’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. They’ve fucked in every way he could imagine on this bed, and other times outside of it. Backseats of cars and the private suites of clubs, bathrooms of bars and even in the alleys behind them. And he’s sure that he knows every noise he can lure and wind out of Jaskier. Evidently not. He glances up, seeing the man’s eyelids flutter closed and his mouth part around a gasping breath. He likes teeth. He likes them against his neck, worrying the skin there and leaving marks behind. Geralt is attentive; but apparently he’ll have to start leaving his brands above the collars of shirts and tees from now on.

He peppers Jaskier’s neck with as many kisses as he can, tasting the beads of sweat that slowly start to lift from his skin. At another light scrape of teeth, Jaskier moans and his hold on him tightens. “ _Geralt_ ,” he whines, tilting his head to the side, baring it completely.

Geralt sinks his teeth into him, tongue pressed against his skin to lessen the worst of the bite. Jaskier seizes beneath him, his back arching and chest pressing flush against his. His hand fumbles within the sheets for a moment before eventually darting up to cup the back of Geralt’s neck. His fingers knot in his hair, tugging and guiding. “Geralt, please,” he gasps, whining at another nipping bite placed below the ridge of his jaw.

Geralt’s smile hides against Jaskier’s skin. He’s hardening already, the poor little bird, rolling his hips up against Geralt’s and almost whimpering at the friction. Jaskier might be more nimble, but Geralt is stronger. He reaches out, catching one of Jaskier’s hands and pinning it to the mattress. He moves just enough to loom over the man, setting their hips flush together and using his weight to keep Jaskier exactly where he wants him. “Hush, little bird,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s jaw, “let me work. You’re mine, remember?”

Jaskier whines, tilting his head. It’s the one part of him that he can still move. It tilts and moves to the side, letting Geralt do whatever it is he was doing. And he pauses over the hollow of his neck, listening and feeling to how Jaskier’s breath becomes sounds; whines and moans spilling out of him with every kiss and nip. Geralt leans down, running the tip of his nose along the man’s collarbone. Jaskier isn’t as lithe as people thinks he is. His muscles are leaner than most, but he still has them. But his collarbone sticks out just enough to be prominent, always alluring through the open and low collars of his shirts. Geralt places feather-light kisses along it.

He’ll leave as many marks on Jaskier as he can, for now. And in the morning, when the worst of the bruises and nips will have started to bloom and heal over, he’ll be at them again. And again. Until the first few people spot the constellation of marks left on the Wolf’s shrike, and word will spread. Geralt hums. “You’re always so good for me,” he lilts, glancing up at Jaskier’s face. His head is rolled off to one side, eyes closed and mouth open. Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile. “My good little bird.”

The words sink into Jaskier’s skin, worming into his muscles and bones. Geralt lets them linger. His fingertips drift along Jaskier’s sides, luring small shivers out of him. He reaches the arch of the man’s hip, dusting along it gently until his fingers venture down, skimming along the bottom of his cock. It’s hardening and starting to redden. And Jaskier’s breath thins when Geralt glances down, regarding it for a moment. Their hips are slotted together, and he _could_ grind them. Lure Jaskier to hardness and have his way with him, like he’s done so many times before.

But he’s taking his time tonight, mapping out and chartering what he can. Geralt drifts past Jaskier’s cock, earning a tight whine from the other man, and he ventures downwards. The tip of one finger brushes against the man’s tight opening. Jaskier’s glare softens, if only a small bit. The air thickens around them, almost suffocating as Geralt breathes it in. It’s heavy with the combining scent of the two of them.

Geralt plays with him for a maddening moment, too dry and tight to do anything just yet. And Jaskier’s whines grow thinner. “What would you like, baby?”

Words tumble out of his little bird. Words that must have been perched on the tip of his tongue for a while, waiting for their opportunity to spill forward. He reaches down, grappling with the back of his thigh and pulling his legs open, presenting himself. “Get in me,” he whines, turning his head to bury his face in the crook of his arm. His other hand knots into the pillows, knuckles already white and Geralt having only skirted light touches over him. Jaskier tilts his head back, neck stretches out and inviting. “Fingers, cock, _anything_. Please, Geralt.”

He could take his time. But he’s already leaning for one of the bedside lockers, fishing a bottle of lube out and uncapping the lid. He holds Jaskier’s eye as he wets his fingers, turning then to look down on the body stretched out and splayed open in front of him. Geralt lets his eyes wander, taking it all in. Even when Jaskier starts to squirm, little whines slipping out from his throat, urging Geralt to _get a move on_ , he takes his time.

His dry fingers brush the inside of Jaskier’s thighs, delighting in how they tremble and shake and try to spread further apart. Geralt clicks his tongue. “Stay still, darling,” he rumbles, sitting back slightly to take in what’s lain out in front of him. “I just want to look at you for a moment.”

Jaskier’s eyes change. He glares down at the man and Geralt has to stop himself from laughing when he catches the man’s eye. Geralt prowls closer, nestling himself between Jaskier’s spread legs. “Desperate little thing,” he murmurs, looking down at his wet fingers finding the rim of Jaskier’s hole, teasing and feather-light. He doesn’t look up at the man’s face, but Geralt can hear Jaskier’s breath hitching and pausing for a moment, waiting for Geralt to give him what he needs.

Geralt sets the tip of one finger against Jaskier’s hole, still for a moment while Jaskier looks down at him and gathers his breath. Geralt smiles at him, pressing his finger forward just enough until the tip pops inside. Jaskier’s moan shakes out of him through an exhale, back arching slightly as his tight body pulls Geralt in further. It’s a struggle to keep it to the first knuckle, to keep his lark waiting for _his_ word on how quickly this goes. Because Jaskier is always so good for him. A warm, tight heat that he loves burying himself in.

Even now, letting his finger delve inside of Jaskier, curling slightly and brushing against that spot inside of him, he can feel himself wanting to quicken. His cock aches, leaking a bead of precum down on to the sheets. His fingers reach down, curling around his cock and pumping it slowly, just to take the edge off.

Jaskier watches him; because he can both lose himself to pleasure and lounge in it, but be able to grapple himself back and reclaim some control. Jaskier tightens around his finger. “More,” he breathes, quickly setting an elbow underneath him to push up. He lifts closer to Geralt. “ _More_ , I want all of you.”

And Geralt sets the second finger beside the first, pausing for a moment before letting that one in. Jaskier stretches around him, his body knowing who’s touching it. Geralt curls his fingers inside of Jaskier, slowly dusting along that spot inside of him that has moans spilling out from his lips and his toes curling. When he finds it, Jaskier burrows his face into his pillow, trying to muffle what he can of his moans. Geralt clicks his tongue. “No, no, little bird,” he rumbles. “Let me hear you.”

 _Let everyone hear you_. The others aren’t home yet, but some part of him wishes that they were. He wants everyone to know; his household, neighbours, everyone in the boroughs and those living beyond his borders. His little lark sings for him and him alone.

Jaskier’s moans tumble out of him with every curl of Geralt’s fingers. He’s adept at luring the most guttural sounds out of the other man. Jaskier’s eyes are closed, brows knitted together. “ _There_ ,” he breathes, moaning as another thrum of pleasure washes through him. “Oh gods, there, Geralt.”

Geralt’s core tightens. Jaskier trembles around his fingers, every curl inside the man has him tightening around him and Geralt’s cock aches to be inside instead. He tightens the grip on himself, grunting as he strokes in time with every delve into Jaskier’s body. “My little songbird,” he rumbles, the sound coming from the depths of his chest, “so good for me. You take me so well, don’t you? Opening up just for me.”

Jaskier’s noises lilt through the air. And he does like hearing them. Geralt takes his time, feeling the man clench and part around his fingers. Even with his hard cock bobbing, leaking beads of precum, he’ll wait until he can lure Jaskier just close enough to the edge before doing anything. And Jaskier seems close already.

Geralt hums, looking down at the fluttering hole seizing around his fingers. “Do you want to come like this, darling?” It would take the edge off, but Geralt knows how sensitive his little bird can get. And he isn’t in the mood tonight to be mindful of it.

Jaskier’s brows knit together. His stomach pulls in and quivers, and his fingers knot into the sheets. He’s close. Geralt smirks, moving his hand that bit quicker. Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath as Geralt lures him closer to release, dusting the tips of his fingers over his prostate again and again until his muscles tense.

An attempt at Geralt’s name is made when he comes. Jaskier tenses around him and his back arches off of the bed. Geralt watches his cock; cum splattering and streaking his abdomen. Geralt’s breath stills at the sight of it. He does like watching his little lark lose himself. When his fists are knotted in the linens of their bed and his face tightens in pleasure, knowing that _Geralt_ did that.

His whines ebb away with every deep breath he takes. Jaskier’s chest heaves as he tries to clamber back. He glances down at Geralt, still perfectly perched in between his legs, looking unbothered.

Geralt twists his fingers, and Jaskier’s face screws up in pleasure. “That’s your first one, darling,” he drawls, pulling his fingers out so only the tip of one lingers inside of the man. “The first of many. I hope you know that.”

Jaskier makes some sort of strangled noise, burying his face into the crook of his arm. Sweat starts to bead along his skin, souring the air and joining the joined scent of the two of them. Geralt hums. He lets his fingers fall free of Jaskier, ignoring the man’s small whimper while he seeks out the bottle of lube again. He palms just enough of it into his palm before setting his hand around his cock, squeezing and pumping as he watches Jaskier start to squirm. Even as pleasure rolls through him and wrings him dry, he’s always so quick to clamber back.

Familiar blue eyes watch him from the top of their bed. Geralt holds the man’s gaze, even when it drops towards Geralt’s hand stroking himself. Jaskier lifts his hips, splaying his legs further out. An invitation.

The corners of Geralt’s lips pull into a smile. _Good boy_. He prowls over Jaskier, setting one hand on to the bed by his side, holding himself just above the man. They fit together so well, like they were made to slot together. Geralt sets the head of his cock to Jaskier’s hole, relishing in the small quivers that tremble through his abdomen, hoping that Geralt will just _get in him already_.

He rolls his hips forward, pressing just the head of his cock inside of the man. Jaskier whines and his head rolls back. Geralt’s eyes glint. A long stretch of bared neck lies waiting for him at the top of the bed; flushed with colour and blossoming, but unmarked – for now.

He’ll wait. He has all night to leave whatever he can on his little lark. Geralt catches the back of the man’s thigh, hitching it up and resting it over his own hip. A sure firm thrust has him pressed wholly into Jaskier, bottoming out almost instantly. And his breath thins at the quivering wet heat around him. Jaskier grasps on to the pillows behind his head, knuckles white and breath held in his chest.

Geralt smoothes a hand over the man’s quivering abdomen. “So good, my darling,” he rumbles, voice dropping and coming from the core of his chest. He struggles to keep himself from catching the man’s hips and fucking into him. Too many nights blinked by in a blur by Jaskier riling him up during their trips into the downtown nightlife, and the moment they were alone, Geralt had him sprawled out in the backseat of their car or mounted over the first surface he could grapple him to.

And he wants to relish in how the man feels; how his body seems to be pulling him in further, tensing and clamping down around him, so tight and warm and wet around him, it’s a wonder Geralt has him ever leaving their bed at all.

Jaskier’s legs coil around the arches of his hips. His heels set into the small of Geralt’s back, pulling him in closer. There’s nowhere else for Geralt to go. His cock is pressed snugly against every part of Jaskier. The head of his cock is nestled against the man’s prostate. And he can feel every time it brushes against it because of Jaskier’s fingers tightening into the sheets and his heels pulling him closer.

 _Needy little thing_. Geralt sets one hand on to Jaskier’s hip, palming over the bump of his hip and curling down to his ass. “That’s it,” he purrs, letting his voice rumble over Jaskier. The man shivers below him. He stills for a moment. Jaskier isn’t going to leave this bed until he’s been claimed as much as Geralt can claim him. Every stretch of skin will be littered with marks, and he’ll be stuffed full of him and left leaking. They’ll sleep whenever they can, and before Geralt leaves for the morning, and Jaskier goes to step out into the world again, he’ll make sure those marks and claims have stuck.

When Geralt rolls his hips, pushing his cock further into Jaskier and then drawing out again, he relishes in the tight moan that forces its way out of the man’s throat. Jaskier’s brows knit together and he flings an arm over his face.

“You put so much trust in me,” Geralt rumbles, letting his hand drift up and over Jaskier’s heaving chest. He brushes his thumb over a nipple, slowly lifting the bud and earning another thin moan out of Jaskier. Geralt keeps his movements slow and languid, even though Jaskier’s legs tighten around him and he tries to spur him on by digging his heels into the small of Geralt’s back. “I’m the only one who sees you like this. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Jaskier whines. _Yes_. He’s beyond words. Any that manage to clamber up his throat are lost around moans and other fucked-out noises. Every roll of Geralt’s hips lures more out of him, until short, attempted gasps of Geralt’s name suddenly slip out of him. His cock twitches between them, trying to fill again.

Geralt bows over him, letting his thrusts steadily get firmer and quicker. “Let me see you, baby,” he murmurs. Jaskier can catch a peek at him underneath his arm, but Geralt wants to see his eyes. He wants to see how blown out they get when he’s barrelling towards the edge.

Jaskier’s arm falls away, lost to the pillows behind him. He’s splayed out and open for him – _just_ for him. And Geralt can feel his core tightening at the thought of it. The sound of their hips connecting slaps into the room, mixing with Jaskier’s whines and moans and Geralt’s soft grunts. He doesn’t often have to use his words to lure Jaskier closer, but he likes making sure that his little lark knows just how precious he is to him. He sets his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head, hunched over him just enough to keep him pressed down into the mattress. He sets his lips to the man’s neck, humming contently when Jaskier tilts his head to the side, allowing access to long strips of flushed skin.

“My precious songbird,” he rumbles against Jaskier’s neck. A shiver trembles throughout the man’s body. Geralt reaches up, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair, tilting his head further back and mouthing kisses and nips to the length of his neck. “Lain out just for me. Always so good on my cock.”

Jaskier whines. His cock, caught between them, hardens and leaks. Geralt glances down at it. It’s red and small beads of cum add to the streaks across Jaskier’s abdomen. Geralt snaps his hips into Jaskier, listening to the man’s breath hitch and catch, only to tremble out of him when Geralt pulls out; and repeat it all again. It’s an assault on his senses. His normally ocean blue eyes are starting to cloud over and fog. He’s brought Jaskier over the edge many times before. He knows how good his little bird can be; fucked dry and pliant, melting into the mattress of their bed and moans and gasps replacing his words. He doesn’t seem far off that now; and they still have a whole night left to go.

At the first scrape of Geralt’s teeth against his skin, Jaskier clenches around him. Geralt’s moan is lost to the hollow of his neck, but he nips at his skin instead, worrying flesh between the points of his teeth. His skin is already flushed and beaded in sweat. He pecks kisses to the worried skin, mindful of hurting his lark. But he does pull away to look at his work. And his thrusts quicken as his core tightens.

Red is a good colour on his lark; bruises and marks left behind on his skin can look delightful. And Geralt delights in leaving them. Knowing that these will be visible, that others will be able to see them too, it’s intoxicating.

“You’ll wear one of your low-neck shirts tomorrow, won’t you?” he mutters against Jaskier’s ear. “I want that neck on display for everyone you meet. I want them to see. You’re mine. They already know that, I’m sure, but I want them to see it.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together. The poor little bird is close. He reaches down and curls his fingers around his cock, wet walls tightening around Geralt’s.

His teeth bite Jaskier’s neck. Any stretch of skin he can find is worried and bruises. He doesn’t quite manage to break through, though he laves open-mouthed kisses on them just in case. Geralt sits up, grabbing Jaskier’s hips and snapping thrusts harshly into him. Each one lures a grunt out of him.

Jaskier stretches an arm back, hands catching pillows and knuckles turning white. “Fill me up, darling,” he moans, quickening the hand curled around his cock. “I’m yours, only yours _, there, yes right there_ , oh fuck—” When Jaskier comes, it’s as whole-bodied as the last. He half-seizes below Geralt, brows knitted together and mouth stretched around a groan.

Geralt loses himself in the fluttering wet heat clamping down on him. Even fucked out, Jaskier guides him with the legs hooked around his hips, urging thrusts and not letting him move too far away. Geralt’s fingers dig into his hips, leaving indents and bruises behind.

He comes not long after. He pushes his hips flush against Jaskier’s, mirroring the man’s groan as he spills himself inside. Jaskier whines; over-stimulated, but still reaching up to lure Geralt down to him. And he goes willingly. He falls into Jaskier’s arms and has his mouth captured in long, languid kisses. Cum pools around his cock, beads of it spilling out and trickling down Jaskier’s hole. But he can’t bear to part with Jaskier’s lips for a moment. He kisses him for all he’s worth, their tongues curling and meeting, and warmth spreading through his whole body and settling into his bones.

The air is thick with the scent of both of them. It coats the roof of his mouth and settles in his lungs every time he breathes in. It’s intoxicating, and he might just be drunk from it. When Jaskier parts them, setting his forehead against Geralt’s and sharing a single, warm breath between them, Geralt watches a loose smile start to curl along the man’s lips.

“I’ll go to my meeting tomorrow naked if you want,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers along Geralt’s jaw and neck, reaching up to card them through the man’s hair. “I’ll make sure they understand what the White Wolf owns.”

The thought of others seeing Jaskier bare earns a small snarl. It’s barely more than a lift of Geralt’s lip, but Jaskier huffs a short laugh at it. “Or one of my tank tops,” he reasons. He leans forward for one more toe-curling kiss, not before he bears down on Geralt’s cock still nestled firmly inside of him. He’s softening and starting to slip out, dragging a trail of cum with it, but Jaskier will have him back to hardness again shortly. He can see that promise dancing behind the man’s eyes.

They’re not done yet. The night is still young.

* * *

The Lioness’ den looks out on to the city, standing above even the wealthier business district towers and offices. She sets her lips against her glass, scenting the sharp whiskey inside, and reclines back into her chair. The sun starts its climb over the nearby mountains. Her line of work demands long days that bleed into the nights, and all thoughts of sleep are long forgotten about.

Alone in her office, she mulls over the last of her Toussaint whiskey. A parting gift from a special little bird. She might not have his services, but Jaskier Pankratz _does_ have excellent taste in liquor. His tastes must have expanded and refined the moment he got hold of the Wolf’s credit card.

Her lip twitches at the thought of it. Devious little thing, that bird. Burrowing itself into a wolf’s den and refusing to budge. A songbird with a siren’s voice. She knows the type. The lovelier, and more ruthless, of those types of birds tend to stick around for a while. Stubbornly immovable, no matter how many times you try to uproot the nest.

Her desk is a mess; charters and invoices scattered across it, with an empty bottle of whiskey sitting amongst it all. She hums. Once it’s gone, she mourns the loss of it. She’ll have to ask Jaskier about his drink stores. If he can’t give her his blade, he may as well offer up where he’s getting all of his good booze.

Her ears twitch at her phone buzzing. It’s...early. Or late. It’s an hour in the day where it’s difficult to tell if it’s too late at night or too early in the morning. Regardless, she fishes for it in the sea of papers, rooting it out just as the screen blinks with another message.

She sighs, unlocking her phone and reading whatever it is one of her people must have deemed so important to tell her at five a.m.

_Unknown Number : Thank you for the offer, Calanthe. I’ve given it some thought but I’m sorry to say that I’m already taken. _

_Unknown Number : [Picture attached]_

Calanthe isn’t shocked by many things anymore. Live long enough in a job like hers and nothing shakes you anymore. But she does blink at her phone screen, at the picture staring up at her. The corner of her lip quirks. Not quite a smile. Nothing that reaches beyond that, anyway.

A songbird gleaming in light, stood in front of a bathroom mirror, bare for the world – and Calanthe – to see. Her eyes travel down the expanse of his torso. The sink, unfortunately, cuts off her view at the valley of his hips, but her eyes wander down all the same. Flushed skin littered in bruises and bites. Freshly dished out, if the colour is anything to go by. Some have started turning blue and yellow, well on their way to healing over. His skin is littered. There isn’t a stretch of him that hasn’t been marked in some way.

 _I’m already taken_.

Calanthe huffs a quiet laugh, entirely to herself in her quiet and empty office. _He most certainly is_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: I was writing this smut so quickly and with such zeal that I flared up my own tendonitis in my hand so now I've been wearing a binding bandage on my thumb and wrist for the past two days! I suffer for my work lmao (just leave the muscle cream by the door with some snacks and leave me be 😭) 
> 
> I'm working on more instalments for this fic because I love this dynamic and the world so much. In the upcoming chapters, we're going to have a very show-boating Jaskier flexing his newfound "Geralt of Rivia Is My Squeeze" privileges. And Geralt being an ever-suffering boyfriend, god bless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually incapable of writing a chapter under 5k, huh?
> 
> **UPDATED TAGS  
> Brief Jaskier x Other Male Character (it's for a kill, it doesn't last long)  
> Blood & Gore (It's not insanely graphic, but just in case)

Something has shifted. He can feel people watching him, albeit out of the corner of their eyes. Those who try and take quick glances at him turn away the moment he looks around, burying their noses back into their glasses of wine or whiskey, or averting their gaze and looking anywhere else _but_ at him.

And Jaskier smiles. Sometimes he lets a light laugh bubble out of his throat. He never had this kind of attention when he worked from himself, flittering between contract to contract. He always had the option of staying in the shadows. Even when Geralt plucked him up and nestled him on to his shoulder, he briefly thought about how he was going to conduct his affairs. Everyone knows what kind of bird he is. When they see him standing outside of their doors, fingers brushing the pommel of a blade or the handle of a holstered gun by his side, they know they must have pushed the White Wolf’s boundaries too far. And Jaskier is often met with grovelling, sniffling pleas to spare their lives. But that’s not what his wolf asked of him.

The whispers have died down. No one curses his name under their breath anymore. Not to his knowledge, at least. Even though people still try and catch a glimpse of him – the prized lark of the White Wolf – they’re smart enough to keep to themselves or they’ll meet Jaskier under not very pleasant circumstances.

Notoriety keeps him safe. No one has been souring Geralt’s name on their tongue for a few weeks. And Geralt prickles at it. When silence falls over the boroughs, he starts to worry. He’s worried in the past that someone may have been plotting against him. And Jaskier understands the need to be cautious. Their lines of work are fickle with who they want alive and dead.

But Jaskier will keep him safe. And Geralt will do the same for him. That is set in stone.

That doesn’t mean he gets to shrug off his shadow.

“Lambert, could you stand any closer to me if you tried?” Jaskier doesn’t glower. He doesn’t scowl. But he can feel his brows knitting together at just _feeling_ one of Geralt’s wolves standing just behind him, an arm’s reach away. The hotel’s lobby is big enough, sprawling out in all directions and glimmering in gold and varnished wood. Still, Lambert stands so close to him that Jaskier can feel his breath ghosting over his skin.

The wolf huffs a short laugh, arms dutifully folded across his chest as he stands beside his ward for the day. Gods alive, Jaskier hopes it’s just for the day. If Geralt finally let him loose to go on a holiday but convinced one of his dogs to follow and guard him, he’s going to scream. Fuck their mutual truce and trust in each other. Geralt is a dead man. Jaskier knows _exactly_ how he’ll do it, and where to put the body after.

If Lambert is going to follow him like a shadow, he might as well carry Jaskier’s bags. They sit at Lambert’s feet; only two, because his stay isn’t going to be for long. “A business-trip,” he smiled at Geralt over a shared breakfast. Because if he can convince to let Jaskier out of his sight for a night, he can soften the blow by petting and feeding his wolf, making sure his hackles stay low and flat.

And Geralt hummed and thought over it, and as long as Jaskier assured him that he would be safe, he could go.

And Lambert could too, apparently.

Other people float in from the drop-off point outside, rolling their luggage through the marble-floored reception and wait dutifully by the lobby for someone to see to them. He really can’t tell any of them apart. Some have gold; bleached blonde hair and over-perfumed skin, sunglasses still perched on their noses as they glance around the lobby, somewhat wishing someone might notice them. Others put it all on – and Jaskier can tell see those people from a mile away.

His eyes threaten to roll. They’ve been here for, what, fifteen minutes, and he’s still standing here. Geralt’s gold, alongside his own, has pampered his tastes; but he saw the small look in the receptionist’s eye. Even when he handed over his booking and confirmed his name and reservation, the glint didn’t ebb away. And Jaskier knows all about _that_ sort of look.

Glancing over his shoulder, he regards his apparent bodyguard for the day. Lambert looks as constipated as ever, somehow managing to keep his usual scowl at bay, but not looking particularly happy at being dragged out here. Still, he does look around the lobby, at the gold and varnished mahogany wood and the lit, burning hearths that already have worn-out skiers gathered around them.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “You wouldn’t be able to make this move a bit faster, would you?” he asks, not entirely quietly. Their receptionist has been gone for a while, and Jaskier can only imagine what he’s discussing behind closed doors.

Even though he wears his new reputation like a suit of armour, proudly boasting around in it whenever he can, he does know that his old one is stuck to him like a shadow.

Lambert snorts. “I’m not beating up a scrawny bellboy for you, birdie.”

Jaskier smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and is dropped as soon as it appears. Gods alive. If Geralt insisted on him having a bodyguard, why did it have to be Lambert? At least he could have some fun with Eskel. Lambert is just a prick.

“I’m sorry, Mr Pankratz,” the receptionist says, fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer. “We don’t seem to have a booking for you here.”

 _Interesting, but not entirely surprising_. Still, Jaskier lifts his chin. “Oh?” He tilts his head. “I’m sure my reservation was confirmed a few days ago by...oh gods, Lambert, what was that lady’s name again?”

Lambert’s voice is nothing but a firm grunt. “Sophia.”

Jaskier clicks his fingers. “Sophia! Thank you. She was such a gem. Is she here?”

The receptionist regards him for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re not allowed to divulge that kind of information.”

Jaskier nods. “Of course, of course,” he hums, glancing around the lobby. “Pity, though. She was ever so helpful. Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find my name in there somewhere. I _did_ confirm all of this with your colleague.”

He holds the receptionist’s gaze for a moment, neither of them budging. The man sighs, something barely thinned and shielded from Jaskier’s ears. He can feel his fingers starting to curl by his side, reaching for where his blade would be. He listens to the tell-tale sound of keys clicking before the receptionist shakes his head again. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing here.” He looks up and at Jaskier, letting his gaze linger for a moment. “Other hotels are available back in the city. Hotels more suited to...your sort of clientele.”

 _There it is_.

He can feel Lambert stiffen behind him, almost ready to take a step forward and square up to the, in contrast to him, scrawny speck of a man.

But Jaskier stretches his hand out to Lambert instead. “Phone,” he says curtly.

He just about manages to hide his surprise when Lambert places his phone into his hand. Eskel would have given him his without even blinking, Coën too. But he was expecting a harsh huff of laughter and a curt _fuck off_ from Lambert. Maybe he hates it too – the implication that Geralt doesn’t have any sway here. Just because this particular valley of Toussaint is miles away from the wolf’s den, it doesn’t mean that Geralt’s shadow isn’t cast here.

Holding the receptionist’s eye, he sets Lambert’s phone to his ear. Geralt is on speed-dial for all of them. And he always picks up on the first ring.

“What is it?” Geralt’s gruff voice comes through.

Jaskier’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Babe,” he thrills lightly, “we’re having a bit of an issue here. Could you be a darling and sort it out for me?”

Devastating words – _for me_. Geralt would do just about anything for Jaskier. And he knows that. It’s his favourite weapon of late. Having the White Wolf so securely curled around his little finger comes with a lot of perks, and Jaskier delights in flexing them.

There’s a small pause on the other end of the line. Geralt sighs. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier’s eyes lower to the lapel of the receptionist’s jacket. A shiny badge displaying his name catches his attention. “Thomas seems to have misplaced my booking,” he lulls, “and he’s kept me waiting here for almost twenty minutes. Isn’t that right, Lambert? He also said some snide comment about my previous work, but I think we’ll let that one slide.”

Jaskier’s smile only grows at the sound of a low, rumbling growl on the other end of the line. “Darling, I’m very tired after our drive here,” Jaskier continues, looking over his shoulder to Lambert. His normally scowling, stone-face expression has cracked finally. The barest ghost of a smile shadows his lips. “Could you be a dear and sort it out for me? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

The other end of the line is deathly quiet. Jaskier has gotten through to him, he knows that; if the rumbling growls breathed out with every breath is anything to go by. And now he just has to wait. Geralt hums. “Of course.”

Geralt hangs up, and Jaskier hands Lambert’s phone back to him, offering him a small wink as thanks. He turns back to the reception desk. Other couples have come and gone, drifting further into the hotel while bellboys gather their bags and follow behind.

Thomas blinks between both of them. His mouth is slightly open, words probably perched on his tongue. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to see to other guests—”

Jaskier lifts his hand, cutting the man off. _Wait_.

Within seconds, the desk phone shrills.

Thomas looks down at it, unblinking, as if the phone itself could leap at him. He slowly picks up the receiver, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?” he answers. His voice is much quieter and thinner than it used to be. “Uh, yes, yes, this is Thomas. What can I do for—?”

Jaskier folds his arms lightly over his chest, taking some time to look around at the lobby again. It’s a nice hotel. Geralt’s credit card took a hefty hit just to book a weekend away. Not that Jaskier necessarily needed the time. He just needs the better part of an afternoon to get rid of some lingering tendrils trying to grasp on to him. Even with word quickly catching like wildfire that he’s otherwise off the market, in more ways than one, there’s always someone to come and bark up the wrong tree.

If Jaskier is going to be lured this far away from home, he might as well be comfortable. And Toussaint’s valleys are lovely this time of year. The lower ones are still ripening in time for harvest season. He’ll be sure to pick up some freshly bottled wine as a gift for Geralt.

For now, Jaskier watches the colour slowly drain from Thomas’ face. Words try and bumble out of him, but he keeps being cut off. Jaskier smiles. It’s something sweet and luring, mainly meant for Geralt. He can only imagine what sorts of threats are being growled down the phone.

It’s a short phone call. Geralt tends to get his point across rather quickly.

Thomas flusters with the phone, setting it back down and darting his fingers quickly across his keyboard. If Jaskier squints, he thinks he can see the first few beads of sweat start to bubble on the man’s brow. Gods, he’s going to have to find out what it was that Geralt said, but he can only presume it was something along the lines of _no one will know where to find your body_.

“Ah, yes,” Thomas bumbles, adjusting his glasses, “Mr Jaskier Pankratz, here you are. My apologies. Your booking is here.” Thomas snaps his fingers at a passing bellboy – someone who barely looks out of their teenage years. The boy blinks at him. Thomas’ voice hardens. “See to it that Mr Pankratz’s bags are brought to his room.”

Lambert chuckles under his breath. “Didn’t know you had Geralt that whipped,” he lilts, following behind Jaskier like a shadow. He couldn’t stand out more if he tried; a black, fitted, high neck sweater and black slacks. All he’s missing is sunglasses and an earpiece. But then again, he can’t remember the last time Lambert wore a colour that wasn’t black or grey. Jaskier will have to work on that. If he’s going to be seen out in public with a guard, he might as well be fashionable.

Jaskier sends a devilish grin over his shoulder. Geralt is wrapped firmly around his little finger. People can whisper all the like about Jaskier just being there to warm the White Wolf’s bed; that some other beautiful bird will come along and Jaskier’s wings will be clipped. Those same people who fill the air with whispers don’t tend to do so for very long. Jaskier sees to it.

* * *

A simple job. Jaskier wouldn’t have taken it if it was going to be too taxing. He strolls down the long corridor of the hotel, glancing at each painting hung on the walls as he passes. There’s no rush. It’s early enough in the night that most people are still at dinner down in the restaurant below. And this hotel seems like the place to let dinner run on for hours on end.

Jaskier counts each room he passes, noting the numbers. When he reaches the one he’s looking for, he takes a measured breath. A cloak shrouds over him; one he would wear when he went on these types of jobs before. No one ever got the real him; no one except for Geralt. Geralt saw through his act almost instantly, and there’s no point in trying to lie to a would-be business partner.

But everyone else gets this version of him. A man who somehow manages to make himself look smaller, letting his shoulders hunch in on themselves and his spine curve slightly. His eyes soften and his lips fill.

He knocks on the door. Three quick and firm raps, just as he agreed with his _client_. And he hates the word, but what else is he meant to call them. Mark? He uses that word with Geralt; though the other man prefers _hunt_ or _prey_. Because that’s exactly what they are. Jaskier is a bird with talons bared, hovering overhead and waiting to dive down on to his unsuspecting prey.

When the door cracks open slightly, still held shut by a chain, he breathes out. _A simple job. Get rid of him, and you’re done_.

A dark eye looks out through the small slit in the doorframe, before the door closes, the chain rattles, and it’s finally pulled all the way open. Jaskier got pictures, of course; both the ones his client sent to him himself and the ones Lambert managed to get while out on the streets of Kovir. Poor thing really didn’t see any of this coming.

He knows what Esterad Thyssen looks like. But he still keeps his eyes soft and small smile dusting his lips when the man steps into the portal of the door. Dark, almost black, eyes run all the way down his body. And Jaskier struggles not to squirm under their scrutiny. “Gods,” Esterad breathes, “you’re gorgeous.”

Jaskier smiles. It’s one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s enough to lift the corners of his lips. He’s played this game for too long. He knows exactly what to do; how to let his hips tilt to the side, showing off the lithe frame of his body. He knows how to smile and put on the best doe-eyes he can so people can lower their walls.

It’s just fortunate that some people, like Esterad, don’t seem to have any walls in the first place.

Jaskier is armoured in a fitted tee and jeans, nothing too dazzling that could catch the attention of anyone – anyone who could possibly remember his face. Going to Esterad’s room was a must. He’s certainly not going to do his work in his room. He wants his weekend to last as long as it can. And Lambert is around to deal with Esterad’s body. Once the job is done, all he needs to do is send a simple text to his guard and Jaskier can finally enjoy his time off.

He stands, making sure the long lines of his body stretch out and show Esterad what he has waiting for him. His movements are slow, deliberately slow, and non-threatening. Sometimes his prey can startle easily. A lot of lieutenants within the boroughs have grand plans on cheating on their spouses, but once faced with a smiling and alluring prospect, cold feet tends to set in.

Still, Jaskier keeps his attempt at a smile spread across his lips. “Thank you,” he laughs lightly, reaching up to card his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes. It’s growing long. He should probably have it cut. But Geralt likes having it long – more to curl his fingers into and hang on to as he fucks Jaskier in their own bed. The thought of his White Wolf has his core curling and tightening. It’s just as shame that the person standing in front of him isn’t Geralt. Pity.

Jaskier gestures to the inside of the room. “May I?” he murmurs, keeping his voice soft.

Esterad steps aside. Jaskier is often loath to walk by people, when they can watch him pass and they’re at his back, but he walks in as comfortably as he can, keeping Esterad in the corner of his eye. Esterad’s room isn’t as nice as Jaskier’s, and that’s somewhat expected. The mayor of Kovir and Poviss, a largely miner’s town to the very north of all the boroughs and districts, doesn’t harbour as much gold as the White Wolf. Or his little lark. Kovir and Poviss are so far out of the view of any of them, that honestly, Jaskier even forgets about it.

But Esterad looks like any typical mayor. He might have been handsome once, but the years have softened his muscles and plumped him up. And his hair is starting to thin and turn grey. He fumbles with the latch on the door – something Jaskier will have to see to later when letting Lambert in to deal with the aftermath – but for now, Jaskier just watches him fidget and fumble with his hands, not knowing quite what to do with them.

 _Poor little thing_.

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “Nervous?” he murmurs, tilting his head. An open-collared shirt, buttoned down to reveal a sliver of his chest, shows off the length of his neck. It’s bare and unmarked. His job would be a lot more difficult if Geralt was here. He couldn’t be able to do any of this work if his prey saw the number of claiming marks left on his skin. But he’s just tying up loose ends. A few more lingering threads left, and he’ll be done. And then he can enjoy Geralt’s fortune in peace.

Esterad’s laugh is tight. “Is it that obvious?”

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “It’s alright,” he lulls. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.” Lying has gotten easier. Terrifyingly so. Lies tumble out of him as easily as truths do. And he doesn’t even blink. He reaches out, splaying his hand open and inviting for Esterad to take. “Let’s just take things slow, hmm? We can do whatever you like.”

Esterad’s shoulders stoop slightly. He’s calming down, but Jaskier can still hear how quickly his breath shudders in and out of him. He’ll need to calm down. Jaskier won’t be able to do what he needs to do if he’s too tightly wound up.

All he can do is let Esterad’s hand curl into his and lead the man to one of the couches in the room. He keeps the man’s bed in the corner of his eye. The sheets are already rumpled. He might have lain down on it at some point. But his work would be better on the bed. It’s not noticeable when bedsheets are stripped and taken down to be destroyed. It’s incredibly noticeable when a whole couch suite goes missing.

But for now, Jaskier sits down on the couch, luring Esterad down with him. “So,” he hums, “we didn’t talk about specifics. What would you like?”

Esterad’s eyes don’t quite meet his. “Oh, uh,” he starts to stammer, “I’m not...whatever you want. I’m happy making you happy.”

 _Such a sweet thing,_ Jaskier has to think. He struggles not to wince. _And a terrible fool; letting a shrike know of his burrow._

Past marks have been awfully sweet to him, promising to shower him with gold and gifts. Promises that have died on their tongues as they’ve choked on their own blood. Sometimes, if Jaskier is feeling particularly merciful, a simple bullet to the head is enough. Over in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t like watching people suffer unnecessarily. Sometimes people deserve it. Those particularly vile people who ask of his services, he has no problem letting them choke on their own blood and spit. He’s watched those types of people fight for breath, grasping at their throats while their skin turns grey and blue. And he’s sat back, lounging in office chairs and on the edges of beds, idly sipping wine or whiskey from a glass.

But darling Esterad doesn’t seem like one of those people. He’s just a man who has lived too long, and someone else wants his place and bid higher than the rest. So here Jaskier is to see things through.

For all the effort he puts in making himself seem smaller and lither than he is, he’s able to render people boneless. Jaskier reaches up, dusting a knuckle along the soft swell of the man’s cheek. His skin is dry and rough with stubble, not like what Jaskier’s used to feeling. But he’ll only be here for a few minutes. And then he can scrub his skin clean.

Esterad trembles underneath him. His eyelids flutter closed and his mouth parts, a shaking breath tumbling out of him. _Good_ , Jaskier thinks, already sitting up on to his haunches. _This will be quick_.

He catches the man’s hand in his, slowly rising from the couch and dragging him with him. “Come on, sweetheart,” Jaskier lulls, swaying his hips slightly as he walks them back to the bed. Esterad’s eyes drop to his waist. He’s done what he can to make himself look as alluring as possible, and he knows how the fit of certain shirts cinches in his waist and highlights a small curve in his body.

He lures Esterad forward, setting a hand on to the man’s chest and nudges him to sit on the foot of the bed. The poor thing’s heart is hammering inside of his chest. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, even though Jaskier’s waist and hips are right there in front of him.

Jaskier doesn’t get too close, but enough that he can start on the top few buttons of the man’s pressed shirt. If he’s to do what he needs to do, then he needs access to the man’s neck. It’s not ideal. Esterad has softened with the years. His neck is nothing more than a jowl wrapped around his throat. It’s going to take a lot of effort if Jaskier is going to do what he planned to.

No matter. He always has a backup plan; a blade sheathed by the small of his back, pressing into his skin with every tilt of his hips. Esterad doesn’t seem to notice at all. His eyes are focused on Jaskier’s body. He takes a measured breath. “Do you,” he lifts his hands, gesturing to Jaskier’s hips. “Do you want me to touch...?”

Jaskier keeps the smile across his lips. “You can do whatever you like, sweetheart,” he lulls, quickly clambering up on to the man’s broad lap. His hands set against Esterad’s chest, pushing him to lie down. Esterad’s eyes widen slightly and his breath catches, but his hands dart to Jaskier’s hips.

Jaskier can move. Esterad’s hold on him isn’t too firm. He prowls over the man, his necklace slipping out from the opening of his shirt and dangling between them. A simple gold chain with a ring hanging from it. He kept it on for a reason – and he didn’t want to be too far away from his Wolf.

Esterad’s eyes are drawn to it. The gold glints in his eye. His own wedding ring is unsurprisingly missing from his finger. Jaskier doesn’t know his wife, but he can only assume that they were married for a long time – if the slight tan lines around his ring finger are anything to go by.

Jaskier reaches up, setting his palm against the hollow of Esterad’s neck. His crawls forward slightly, making sure his knees and thighs are pressed down on either side of Esterad’s hips. Jaskier is above him. _He’s_ the one in control. Esterad won’t be able to wiggle free of him.

Jaskier’s fingers dust his neck. “Do you like it?” he murmurs, eyes leaving the man’s for a moment to look at his necklace and ring. “It was a gift. I wanted it as an engagement ring, but I’m afraid my lover didn’t seem for the idea. Not yet, anyway.”

Esterad’s lips part. Words perch on the tip of his tongue, but they’re swallowed as soon as Jaskier’s fingers drift over the man’s Adam’s apple. “No matter,” Jaskier hums. “I’ll drag him down the aisle soon enough.”

Esterad’s eyes drift up to his. “Does...” he swallows thickly. “Does he know...that you do this kind of work?”

Jaskier hums. “Oh yes,” he nods, following his fingers with his eyes. His blade digs into his back, but with his shirt beginning to hitch up, it’ll be a quick draw. Jaskier has always been like a viper with his movements. A small smile ghosts his lips. “He’s very supportive. In fact,” Jaskier’s hand falls away from Esterad’s neck, setting down on to the mattress. Framed by his arms, Esterad finally looks somewhat smaller. Jaskier tilts his head. “He was the one who first told me about you. You’ve been very silly recently, Esterad. Really? Laundering money from public funds? I hope you didn’t spend any of that on me. I’m all for laundering money from those perched up in those pretty high-rise buildings, thinking that they can live like kings on the backs of others. But I draw the line at stealing from the poor.”

Jaskier has only a brief second to enjoy the flash of confusion in the man’s eye before his hand darts behind him, unhitching his blade and ripping it out of its sheathe. Esterad’s eyes widen and his mouth stretches around a plea just as the blade meets the arch of his throat, slicing quickly and deeply through.

He doesn’t know how long it took him to get used to death, or to a person dying. He tries to make it as quick as possible, whenever he can. But even a slice to the neck, he knows that it’s not a bullet. Esterad is still somewhat with him as Jaskier sits back up, sitting heavily down on the man hips as he tries to squirm away. One large hand flails up to his neck, trying to keep blood from spurting and flowing out. It doesn’t matter. The damage is already done. Jaskier watches as crimson blood oozes out from in between the man’s thick fingers.

Esterad squirms and wiggles and gasps underneath him until he doesn’t. Jaskier tilts his head. The stillness that follows is always what catches him. Death can be loud. Even in a quick death, people can gasp and gurgle on their own blood, and try and plead with him with their eyes even though he’s already killed them. And then once they’re gone, a certain heavily silence is left behind.

He waits until he’s sure. Because you only learn that lesson once – make absolutely certain that a kill is actually dead before you go to leave. Jaskier waits as long as he can before he almost throws himself off of Esterad’s lap, standing up to full height and stretching out his back and rolling his shoulders. His blade drips beads of blood on to the floor.

He rolls his eyes. A problem for Lambert. Speaking of the devil—

Jaskier fishes his phone out of his pocket, quickly tapping out the man’s number. It only has to ring once before Lambert grunts out a _what_.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Lovely to hear from you too, asshole,” he lilts. He glances over to Esterad’s body still half-slumped back on to the bed. “I’m done here.”

“Is there much of a clean-up?” Lambert grunts, and Jaskier can only assume he’s gotten up from his permanent slump on his room’s couch and is starting his trek up to Esterad’s room.

Jaskier eyes the body. “Hmm, I tried my best to keep it clean.”

“So, yes,” Lambert sighs. “You know, birdie, if you’re going to keep making a mess, I’m going to start making you clean it up yourself.”

Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh. “Lambert, you tease. You really know how to speak to a guy.” He wipes his blade on Esterad’s slacks. He won’t mind, the poor soul. His skin is already starting to pale.

It isn’t long until there’s a firm knock on the room’s door. Jaskier pockets his phone and lets the red-haired man inside. As soon as he spots the body, Lambert’s lips thin. “Alright,” he sighs, “not as bad as I was expecting.”

Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “Did you want me to paint the walls with blood? THE WHITE WOLF WAS HERE, BEWARE; something like that?”

Jaskier will always take pride in the small things – like luring a ghost of a smile out of Lambert, even if the red-haired man tries to hide it by turning away. Lambert is nothing but efficient, already rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, craning his head to look everywhere on the bed, before he’s even touched the body.

Jaskier glances to the door again. “The security cameras,” he motions to the hallway outside. “They’ll show us in here.”

Lambert waves a hand. “I’ll deal with it, birdie,” he grunts, already stripping the bed of all of its sheets. They’re not too badly soiled with blood, but it’s always safe to be sure. Jaskier pads to the bathroom, washing his hands and scrubbing underneath his nails. He’s learned his lessons over the years. Don’t leave anything behind; especially not on _you_. He catches a quick look at himself in the mirror. Apart from his hair being tousled slightly, he looks the same as he did when coming in. _Good_.

When he steps back out into the room again, Lambert has Esterad’s body rolled up in the soiled sheets. His phone is perched by his ear, and he mumbles something to someone on the other end of the line.

He should go. The less he can witness, the better. More deniability. And Lambert said that he would handle it. He has a strange ability to make things, and people, vanish into thin air. Jaskier takes a moment to fix his hair, running his fingers through it and combing it back into place. A few buttons of his shirt are still undone, but he doesn’t mind. If anyone does stumble on him in the hallway, he’ll just act tipsy.

Lambert catches his eye, nodding to the door. _Go_.

Jaskier gives the man a short mock-salute. Behind him, the red wolf snorts a short laugh.

* * *

He has a set post-hunt routine that largely comprises of a long, languid bath, scented and oiled with anything pleasant to his senses. One of the reasons he likes nicer hotels is the soaps and bath oils they have on offer. And he lounges in the sharp citrus scents slowly curling into the air.

His muscles ache nowadays, age slowly starting to creep up on him. No matter how many days he spends in the gym, slowly improving his strength and stamina, he still winces when his back starts to cramp for some unknown reason. Geralt laughed at him once, grunting that it was just Jaskier finally joining the senior citizens club with the rest of them. And he’s been checking his hair for greys ever since.

When his skin is freshly washed and scrubbed, washed clean of any of the man’s blood or touch, then he can relax. He ruffles a towel through his hair, wringing the last drops of water free from it. The bathroom is full of heavy steam from his bath, lilted with citrus scents that sting his tongue and the inside of his nose.

The sun is starting to fall beneath a nearby ridge. The hotel is perched on the higher peaks, looking out over the valleys. The tips of the ridges are already laden with frost and snow. But with the lit hearth blooming warmth into his room, and a plush warm bed waiting for him, he can’t wait to sink into it. He pads out into the room, tossing the towel back into the bathroom and clicking off the light behind him.

His phone sits on his bedside table, still and with a blank screen. Jaskier chews his lip. He plucks up his phone, quickly tapping out Geralt’s number. Rings thrill against his ear. He crawls on to his bed, sighing as he sinks down into the mattress. Only on nights when they’re apart do beds seem to stretch on forever. Jaskier glances around the room. It’s big; too big for just him. He wants Geralt here, beside him, but he’s content with just having the man’s voice rumbling against his ear.

Geralt picks up on the second ring. “My little lark,” he greets lowly. He’s alone. It’s almost night-time, and Geralt is keen to have most of his work done by later afternoon, and the last lingering members of his household out of his door and back in their own homes so that he can enjoy the night in peace.

A smile stretches across Jaskier’s lips. “Hello,” he purrs, setting a hand on to his bare chest. His heart beats that bit quicker when he hears Geralt’s voice. He can feel it thumping and hammering underneath his palm.

“Is your problem dealt with?”

Jaskier hums, setting a hand on to his chest. “Yes, darling. Thank you. Some people can be terribly forgetful these days. I mean, who loses a confirmed booking?”

“Jaskier.”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier lifts his hand up, examining his nails. No specks of blood are caught underneath his fingernails. The smell of Esterad has long since been stripped from his skin. “ _That_. Lambert is dealing with the body as we speak. No one will be looking for Esterad What’s His Name any time soon.” And if someone does, they’ll deny it. Jaskier is a convincing liar and they’ve done their best to cover up their tracks. Esterad Thyssen has a terribly unhappy marriage and a thinning political career. He was going to be ousted out of office anyway once certain bits of information start leaking through. A mayor who starts dipping into public funds for private, personal means doesn’t tend to stay around for long. No one will come looking for someone like Esterad.

Geralt hums. Jaskier hears a door clicking shut in the background and the rustling of clothes. Jaskier’s core tightens. He’s obviously caught Geralt at a good time. “Are you alone?” he asks, knowing full well that it doesn’t even matter. Jaskier likes to call Geralt whenever he can, and if he’s in the middle of something, so what?

But Geralt makes an affirmative noise. “Done for the day,” he sighs. “Why are you asking?”

Jaskier smiles up at the ceiling, watching the last beams of sunlight slowly start to fade away and night rolls in. “Just wanted to make sure that I had you to myself.”

Geralt’s laugh is a gentle huff. “You always do.”

“Sweet man,” Jaskier thrills. He lets his hand drift and wander. Fingers skim and dust over his bare chest. Gods, he wishes this was Geralt. His skin bubbles into gooseflesh and his breath starts to thin, but it’s not enough.

Geralt’s voice rumbles in his ear. “Are you playing with yourself, little bird?”

Jaskier makes no attempt to hide the small whine that slips out of him. It’s more of a rush of breath. Geralt’s voice, vivid memories of how his fingers and hands feel on his skin, it’s enough to have his cock twitching and starting to fill.

He doesn’t even need to answer Geralt. He knows his little bird too well. “Did you bring anything with you?”

All of his toys are back at home. He didn’t think that he would need them. But the Continent seems to stretch across them, and Geralt is a world away now. “No,” Jaskier mourns. Nothing feels better than Geralt prying him open with his own fingers, or pushing his cock into him after seemingly hours of keeping him teetering on the edge. But there are certain toys, toys that Geralt had specifically made, that he uses to bide time until Jaskier can get his hands on the real thing.

And they’re not here with him. Geralt clicks his tongue. “Pity,” he hums. “I suppose you’ll have to make do with what you have with you.”

Fingers. Jaskier rarely touches himself like that anymore. He has Geralt. And Geralt is _very_ attentive. If he can’t have Geralt here with him, then he’ll just have to let the man guide him along.

Fingertips drift down the stretch of his body, down his chest and abdomen and hovering just above the base of his cock. It twitches and starts to harden, and Jaskier’s breath comes that bit harder when he imagines wrapping his fingers around it.

Geralt’s voice lowers. “Are you hard?”

Jaskier hums. “Getting there.”

“Are you touching yourself?” he asks. His voice might be low and rumbling, but it’s painfully firm. Jaskier’s breath is already starting to thin and catch in his throat. Even the words bumbling out of him are caught up in his throat.

Jaskier whines. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t say I could.”

A deep laugh brushes his ear. “Good boy.”

 _Can I_? The question lingers on the tip of his tongue. He just about manages to keep it behind clenched teeth and thin lips pressed firmly together.

Geralt takes a measured breath. “Poor little thing,” he rumbles. “Touch your cock, darling. But don’t let yourself come.”

It’s something. Jaskier’s fingers curl around his cock, just holding and squeezing it light for a moment. His hand is dry and it won’t be enough to get him close, but it’s _something_. Noises shuffle on the other end of the line. Bedsheets rumpling and rustling and Geralt sighing as he presumably lies down on their bed, stretched out and languid.

“What would you do,” Jaskier lulls, “if you were here?”

Geralt’s voice drops, shaking through Jaskier’s chest as it rumbles against his ear. “I would wait for you to come back from your job. Your work is terribly important to you, my love. But I would want you bathed. I don’t want to smell another’s scent on you.”

Jaskier whines. He tried to keep Esterad’s touches to a minimum, but he had to lure the man close enough to get a good hit in. Even now, with his skin soft and scrubbed red, he can still feel the man’s hands on him. And it turns his stomach. “ _Geralt_ ,” he moans, pumping his cock in long, languid strokes. He wants the man’s scent on the roof of his mouth, his familiar, calloused fingers digging into his hips, and skin against his.

Everything seems to slip away. The rest of the hotel, the snow-capped valleys sprawling all around it. With Geralt’s voice in his ear and his own hand drifting and mapping out his body, all there is in the world is this. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

There’s rustling fabric on the other end of the phone, followed by the tell-tale clink of a belt being undone. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed at the image manifesting in front of him. “Don’t take yourself out yet,” Jaskier gasps, knowing that Geralt probably has his hand slid half-way down into his pants. “Talk to me. Please. I need your voice. If you were here, with me, what would you do?”

Geralt’s hum rumbles against his ear. “What would I do with you, hmm? I’d have you lain out on our bed, spread open for me. Could you wait for a moment, darling? I would want to spend some time letting my hands run all over you, and kissing that lovely neck of yours. I’d want to leave my own marks on you. Someone else might have touched you today, but you’re _mine_.”

Jaskier whines. His hand quickens on his cock, beads of cum starting to gather on his head. He gathers what he can within his palm, using it as lube to slicken the way. It’s not enough. He needs Geralt’s hand on him. He can feel the ghost of the man’s touch on him, in the way he describes exactly what he would do if he were here with Jaskier. But he isn’t. He’s back in _fucking Kaedwen_ —

“Desperate little thing,” Geralt growls. It sends another pulse of pleasure through him, drawing his legs to the side and curling his toes into the bedding. “Do you hear the noises that you’re making? You’re such a sweet little songbird for me, with the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard. Maybe I would bring you out on to our balcony, hmm? Bend you over the railing and have you there, for all to see and hear.”

_Gods alive._

Jaskier moans Geralt’s name. “I need, _fuck_ , I need more, please!”

Clothes rustle on the other end of the line. Geralt might not be touching himself, but he’s stripping. And Jaskier knows his body so well that he can imagine it stretched out beside or over him, weighing him down on to the mattress. Geralt growls. “Put your phone on speaker, darling,” Geralt lulls, “free up your other hand. If you want more, let yourself have more.”

Jaskier’s eyes open – when did he even close them – and glances around the room. It’s not quite dark outside, but the light is fading. He blinks at the harsh light of his phone screen, managing to turn on speaker before setting it on the pillow beside him.

Geralt’s voice comes through again. “Do you have any lube?”

“In my bag,” Jaskier replies quickly, already looking around for it.

A curt order comes through. “Go get it.”

It’s a scramble. The moment his hand slips away from his cock, a whine slips out of him that he’ll deny making to his dying day. He staggers over to his bag, thankfully sitting by the foot of his bed. It takes far too long to root through it, ripping spare clothes out and tossing them haphazardly across the floor. When he finally finds the bottle, he grasps it firmly and lies back down against the bed, perching his phone on the pillow beside him, content to have Geralt’s voice lulling into the air around him.

He pours an ample amount on to one hand, rubbing it with the other to slicken them both. One of his hands curls back around his cock, slowly pumping it. It feels better with slick. Jaskier’s abdomen sinks in as he whines, tightening his hold on his cock and pumping his hand quicker.

“Just play with yourself for a second, darling,” Geralt rumbles. “You sound like you’re on the edge already. Don’t make this end too quickly.”

He lets his other hand drift down past his cock, fingers reaching down and dusting along his hold. Jaskier bites down on his lip. He might be drawing blood, but it’s all he can do in order to keep his noises in. A sharp click of Geralt’s tongue snaps across the air. “Let me hear you, Jaskier,” he growls.

The sounds that slip out of him are something only for Geralt’s ears. He might like the idea of others hearing him, especially when he’s lured Geralt into ravishing kisses and sets their hips rocking together in the bathrooms of clubs and the outside alleys of bars, but this is for Geralt. Even though his White Wolf is across the Continent, he can imagine him so vividly here with him.

Geralt sighs languidly. “Tell me what’s going through that head of yours, darling,” he murmurs. As much as he likes Geralt’s voice against his ear, letting the filthiest things slip out and brush over him, he likes doing the same to the other man too.

He sets his head back against the pillows, letting thrums of pleasure wash and lap over him as he strokes his cock. “I’ll have myself prepared for you,” Jaskier lilts. He can see it now, waiting in Geralt’s bed, reclining against the pillows and sprawled out, waiting for his White Wolf to come back from wherever he’s been and lay claim to him again. “I want you to fuck me. Bury yourself in me and make me feel you. Before you do anything else, _please Geralt_.”

A growl rumbles into the room. He thinks about cutting his holiday short. If he could, he’d get Lambert to drive him back to Kaedwen right now, suffering through traffic and an almost four-hour long drive, but he would do it. Or lure Geralt here and extend their stay. He’s sure his bank balance wouldn’t mind too much.

Geralt’s voice plumes out into the room. “Darling—”

“Touch yourself,” Jaskier breathes, looking down at himself. His fingers still play with his ass, barely brushing over his hole. Gods, he’s so hard and starting to leak over his hand. He won’t be able to last. A whine slips out of him. “Touch yourself, baby. Let me hear you.”

Geralt’s groan rings through his ear, and Jaskier shivers. When Geralt speaks, his words are tightened and curt. “Where are your fingers?” he grunts. “Have you put one inside of you yet?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter shut. “No,” he whines. “You didn’t say I could.”

“You can, darling. If you’re slick enough, slip one in,” Geralt’s order rumbles against his ear.

The tip of one finger sets against his hole. He’s wet, lube already spread between his thighs. He presses in slowly, feeling himself part around the single digit. Gods alive, he misses Geralt. Geralt has such nice, thick fingers. Jaskier’s are skilled, but they’re lithe and narrow, more suited to the finer work. Geralt’s fingers fill him like no one else’s can.

Geralt listens to the noises spilling out of him. It’s one finger, and it isn’t enough by any means. Nothing Jaskier can do to himself will be enough. He needs his Wolf _now_.

“You know, my little lark,” Geralt muses, voice dropping in volume until it’s nothing but a low rasp. “I shouldn’t let you touch yourself. I’m not even there to see you. You make wonderful sounds, darling, but I’m at a loss of things to look at.”

Jaskier moans some attempt at Geralt’s name.

“Tell me what you’re doing to yourself, my little songbird,” Geralt hums. Jaskier can see him now – with some stupid fucking smirk curled along his lip, lounging against the pillows of their bed while he strokes himself. _Fucking prick_.

If Geralt wants detail, he’s getting detail. He lifts his hips up slightly, pushing his finger further into him. He groans at it, just enough to keep him interested but nowhere near enough to tighten the coil in his abdomen. “I’m sprawled out, spread just for you,” he lulls, letting his words slip freely from his lips, “and I’m touching myself.”

“Your cock and your hole?”

Jaskier hums. _Yes_.

Geralt grunts. “How many fingers?”

“Just one,” he sighs, curling it slightly inside of him. A second finger hovers near his entrance, prodding and trying to join the first. But he hasn’t been given permission yet. He can’t do anything unless Geralt says so—

“Add another, baby,” Geralt hums, “let me hear you.”

Jaskier is slick enough for two. The stretch hums through his body, curling his toes into the mattress and luring a long and low moan out of him. “I need _you_ ,” he admits on his next breath, rolling his hips down on to his fingers and up into his hand. Pleasure thrums through him, and it’s nice and languid, but he needs Geralt’s hands grasping on to him and pinning him down, and his cock stretching him to the point of breathlessness and fucking into him.

Jaskier’s fingers quicken inside of him. They delve inside as far as they can, curling, seeking out that spot inside of him that has his breath hitching. And he stretches himself. He can feel how easily he parts – all for Geralt, his body knows the other man too well, it knows what it needs to do to take him – but the thought of having himself ready and prepared only to fall asleep alone, it’s too much. “I need you,” he breathes again, turning his head towards his phone. It’s fallen slightly, but he’s able to say what he can into it. “Need you to fuck me the second I’m home. _Gods_ , Geralt. I’ll be ready for you. I need your hands, your mouth, your cock, _anything_.”

“Desperate little thing,” Geralt growls through the phone. Jaskier can see him now, hips driving up in quick thrusts, his hand tight around himself. He imagines Geralt spilling himself, and how Jaskier likes to make sure his hips fit snugly against Geralt’s once he cums. He likes the other man burying himself and spilling however much he can inside of him until it starts to pool out around his softening cock.

Jaskier’s hand quickens. He’s close. His breath starts to hitch as he moans Geralt’s name, stroking himself and tightening his grip, plunging his fingers deeper into his hole. He’s abdomen quivers. He can feel himself starting to barrel towards the edge. “Geralt,” he breathes, “Geralt, can I come? I’m so close, _please_ —”

Geralt makes some sort of noise. “Come for me, my darling,” he grunts. “Let me hear you. Spill over yourself for me.”

His touch might never have been enough, but with Geralt’s voice lulling against his ear, Jaskier’s eyes roll as he clamps down on his fingers, cock spurting as he comes. He groans, letting it slip freely out of him. Through the haze of release, he listens to Geralt’s groans get tighter. Jaskier’s words slur out of him. “Are you close, baby? Are you going to come for me?” his words barely separate as the bumble out through his bitten lips. He stretches out his neck, imagining Geralt peppering kisses and bites along the length of it. His cock twitches, threatening to fill again. “I’m here spread out for you, Geralt. I miss you. I miss your hands and your cock. I shouldn’t let you come, not now, not until I’m back with you and you can spill it inside of me. But I do love listening to your voice.”

Geralt growls.

The corners of Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile. “That’s it, baby. I’d be so good for you, wet and open for you to fuck into. Come for me, Geralt. Fill me up, darling.”

And listening to Geralt come almost has him hardening again. The man’s groan rings out through the room – even though dimmed slightly through the phone, Jaskier turns his head towards it and listens.

Geralt’s breath eventually thins out, and the bedsheets rustle. Jaskier’s hands fall away from himself. He wishes his Wolf were here, to do nothing else but to clean him himself. Gods, the thought of getting up to grab a towel makes him groan. Jaskier just about manages to roll to the edge of the bed, snagging his tee from the floor and wiping what he can away.

When he settles back into bed again, the plush mattress giving underneath him and a warm blanket bundled around him, staving off the worst of a chill worming into the room, he listens to Geralt settle down for bed too.

“I’ll be home soon,” he murmurs. Sleep is starting to tug at him. Even in the vast bed he has, most of it cold without another body inside of it, he can feel himself drifting off. “Miss you.”

He can hear Geralt smile over his words. “I miss you too, darling. I’ll see you when you’re back home.”

 _Home_. That’s a nice word. Jaskier’s smile is broad and silly as he tucks his nose into his pillow, breathing in steady breaths.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: This fic isn't smutty, but quite angtsy. We'll be back to the regularly scheduled smut-fest within the coming chapters, don't worry. This absolutely was an excuse to get Hurt!Geralt into this chapter and get Badass!Jaskier out in force. 
> 
> **UPDATED TAGS  
> Major Character Injury  
> Injury/Blood  
> Minor Character Torture (Implied, but always best to be safe)

They probably were expecting a _no_. Geralt isn’t a fan of going out, particularly into downtown where the lights are too bright and the noises are too loud. It’s an assault on his senses. But Lambert promised him drinks on him, and Jaskier pressed enough sweet kisses to the line of his jaw to slacken his nerves.

“Fine.”

And both his brother and Jaskier blinked at him for a moment. They probably expected him to wave both of them away, wish them happy times downtown on their own. But a brief moment passes where Lambert and Jaskier look at each other, share a pleased smile, and scramble upstairs.

One tediously long change into some nicer clothes later, and he steps out into the streets of downtown. It’s as busy as it usually is; people already falling out of bars and stumbling into the next. Crowds gathered outside, guarded by scowling security. Even with the summer at its height, the nights can be chilly. And Geralt watches some people start to clump together, warding off the worst of the chill.

The bar they’ve picked isn’t the loudest. So there’s that, at least. Geralt can only wear a small glower as Lambert rushes out to speak with security. They wouldn’t have caused much of a problem. Even the burliest men tend to part and give way when they spot the familiar car of the White Wolf rolling to a stop outside of the bar.

Jaskier loops an arm through Geralt’s, huddling close to the man. “Could you at least _try_ to look like you’re having a good time?” he lilts, his smile growing once Lambert turns and waves them in. Security guards nod their heads in acknowledgement of Geralt, and go back to overseeing the line outside.

The bar isn’t too loud. For all the trouble Jaskier likes to cause him, he can be considerate. And he’s learned that sometimes Geralt’s senses can get overloaded and he’ll be in a foul mood for the rest of the day and night. So Jaskier is sure to bypass the main floor of the bar, where huddles of people are already gathered in groups, and the air is heavy with the scent of alcohol and perfume. Lambert strides ahead, already fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He _did_ promise that Geralt’s drinks would be on him; though knowing Lambert, he’ll probably lull someone at the bar to give them drinks for free. He’s always been nimble with his charm.

A private room is always waiting for them. Geralt heads straight for it, knowing that some walls will stand in between him and the deep thump of music spilling out on to the main floor of the bar. A few of his men follow him; Coën and Eskel stick close to his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eskel looking out on to the floor, watching for anyone who could pose some sort of threat. Geralt used to do it himself. Scanning crowds attentively. Vesemir hammered the lesson into him. Always be aware, never let your guard down. And while he can let his shoulders fall slightly, he does glance around. Just in case.

The private rooms of the bar are well stocked, and Geralt’s core swells at the memories that blink before him. He met his lark in a room like this. The layout is roughly the same. A stocked bar against one wall, with a U-shaped couch taking up most of the space, and a table in the middle. Geralt falls into his usual seat; facing the door so he can keep an eye on who comes and goes.

Eskel heads straight for the bar, clinking some glasses together. “Whiskey?” he asks, not even looking at Geralt. It doesn’t matter whether he asks him or not. The bottle of aged and amber liquid is already in his hand and being uncorked.

Geralt grunts, settling back into the plush faux-leather of the seat. It gives slightly underneath him. It’s comfortable and away from the wandering eyes of others. Through some slightly frosted glass, he can make out the faint figures of Jaskier and Lambert. The floor of the bar is heaving with people, swaying like waves with the rhythm of the music. He only knows who he’s looking at because Lambert’s mess of red curls stands out among the rest of the heads gathered around the bar, and he would know Jaskier’s figure anywhere. That and Jaskier wears a loose white shirt that bares a deep sliver of his chest, and Geralt has had his eyes on it ever since he padded downstairs in it. 

He’s drifted into the middle of the dance floor now, Geralt notices, arm in arm with a short and lithe red-headed woman. Both of them wear long, stretched smiles and crow in laughter as they start to dance.

Geralt lifts his chin, trying to get a better look. He doesn’t know this woman. An old contact of Jaskier’s, maybe. He isn’t sure. They look comfortable with each other, with Jaskier taking the woman’s hand and twirling her around, gathering her quickly into his arms when she almost stumbles over her heels. Both of them dissolve into fits of laughter.

He keeps watch on his little lark, even when Eskel sets a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. Eskel snorts a sharp laugh. “You dote on him,” he murmurs, lifting his own glass to his lips.

Geralt turns, meeting his brother’s curious gaze. His brows knit together. Reaching for his drink, he tries not to roll his eyes at the amount Eskel poured for him; enough to start him on a very slippery slope to getting drunk. But there’s a glint in Eskel’s eye all the same, and Geralt takes his first measured sip.

Lambert decides on the bars because Lambert is a self-proclaimed sommelier. He knows where the best drinks are served, and chances are before Geralt and the other wolves have even graced the bar’s door, Lambert has already visited multiple times before that. _Scoping the place out_ , he usually says. It’s a nice job to have. Just making sure his boss is going to be safe, that’s all. And if he happens to catch the eye of someone pretty, all the better.

Once the whiskey has stopped stinging the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, Geralt grunts. “He’s known to get himself in trouble,” he rumbles, letting his thumb dust the ridge of his glass’ lip. Even with the thump of the music somewhat dimmed, he can still look out and see a heaving mass of people wave and lap through the main floor of the bar.

Eskel hums. “Right,” he lilts, slumping down into his own segment of the chair to the side.

Geralt regards him for a moment. “Why aren’t you out there?” he nods to the outside world. “Thought you would be out there on the dance floor with him.”

Eskel snorts into his glass. He gestures vaguely to his back. “Had a minor run-in with some vagabonds outside of Cintra,” he sighs. When he leans into the cushions of the couch, Eskel winces. It’s brief and lost entirely if Geralt blinked, but he’s always been tuned and in tandem with his brothers. “I’ll be fine. Nenneke said it was just a sprain.”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “You should be at home resting then.” He can’t help the small growl that lilts through his words.

Eskel rolls his eyes. “Gods alive, you sound like Vesemir.”

“If he knew you were out here with an injury,” Geralt rumbles, letting the sentence trail off into the room. They all know what he would do. Geralt has half a mind to call him. And within seconds they’d both be reduced to bickering teenagers again, trying to play the blame game and ultimately failing and just taking more years off of Vesemir’s life.

But the threat still lingers.

Eskel narrows his eyes, staring his elder brother down. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He can’t imagine what the old dog would even be like. Eskel would be banished home and Geralt would earn a clipped ear just for dragging Vesemir out of his retirement. He was very clear in his instruction. _I’m not to be disturbed. Understood_?

Even if Kaedwen and all of its holdings burst into flame, he can’t see Vesemir mustering the energy to care. He’s done with this life now – the lucky old bastard. The job and title have only been cloaked around Geralt’s shoulders for a year and a half now and he can already feel himself starting to wither under the pressure.

He leaves off on any more threats and nurses his whiskey instead. It’s good, a deep amber, and probably brewed out in the Skellige Isles. If it’s Crach’s brew, then he’ll have to send a request for a crate of it.

For a moment, it’s only the two of them. Eskel talks with him, and for the first time in a long time, it isn’t about work. Eskel’s lips twitch when he leans forward in his seat, ignoring the sharp sting of pain darting through his back. “Lambert has a new squeeze,” he grins, gaze drifting to the window looking out on to the dance floor. Geralt tries not to bring too much attention to himself, but Lambert is so painfully quiet about his love-life, he can’t help it. He cranes his neck around, quickly scanning the crowds for the familiar head of wild curls.

Eskel laughs. “I bumped into one of Vesemir’s old contacts this morning,” he lilts, perching his chin on his fist and smiling. “She said he looked _very_ comfy sidling up to a man.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Did you get a name?”

“ _Did you get a name?_ ” Eskel mocks, lowering his voice into Geralt’s usual timbre. “What do you take me for? Of course I did. His name is Aiden. Nice lad. He actually works for you.”

Geralt’s brow only climbs higher.

Eskel lifts a shoulder. “Some warehouse outside of Aedirn,” he says. “He’s the one who stopped Calanthe’s men from stealing your gun shipments.”

That he _does_ remember. He got word of it, and an assurance that everything was accounted for and Calanthe was going to get a very firm message about staying out of wolf territory. A former cat, Geralt believes, who knows Calanthe’s methods and means better than anyone else on Geralt’s payroll. An asset to have around. Lambert can keep him.

They’re disturbed by the door suddenly opening. Neither of them can help it. Their heads snap to the door, with Eskel’s hand dropping to his holstered gun by his side. The moment of shrill panic ebbs away at the sight of Jaskier slinking into the room, letting the door click shut behind him.

“Hello, birdie,” Eskel lilts. He glances over to Geralt. “So, do I need to leave now? Or will you two keep your hands to yourselves for more than five minutes?”

Geralt doesn’t bother replying to that. With every step Jaskier takes towards him, Geralt’s smile grows. His legs splay out slightly. His bird does love to perch on them. Geralt lifts his chin. “What is it?” he murmurs.

Jaskier slides on to his lap, curling an arm around his shoulder and bringing him close. “Dance with me?” he breathes, leaning down to peck a few kisses along Geralt’s jaw.

It might have worked to lure him out for a night downtown, but Geralt’s hands find his lark’s hips. “There are many things I would do for you, little bird, but I won’t dance,” he chuckles.

Jaskier all but pouts, sighing heavily as he threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “You’re a terrible bore,” Jaskier groans, slumping against Geralt. His little lark is warm and soft, and he gathers him close. His breath lilts of something sweet, maybe the first of many cocktails he’s lured out of Lambert, but he’s nowhere near drunk.

Eskel necks the last of his whiskey. “I’m not drunk enough to bear with you two,” he grumbles, lifting himself up and striding back over to the bar. Geralt watches him go, but his attention is slowly pulled back to Jaskier. Wandering and nimble fingers fidget with the fabric of his shirt, opening the lapels slightly so Jaskier can slip a hand underneath, palm skimming along Geralt’s warm skin.

A small rumble slips from his throat. The music and crows of people shouting and laughing and dancing outside still worm in through the walls, but it’s muffled. There’s just enough quiet in the room to enjoy Jaskier for a bit.

He’s warm, with small beads of sweat already dotting his brow. Some of his hair is stuck to his forehead. Geralt reaches up, brushing it back to let him have a view of those wonderful ocean blue eyes. Neither of them has been here long enough to get drunk yet, but Geralt is well on the way there. His arms are heavy and Jaskier’s weight has him firmly pinned to the couch. Not that he would want to be anywhere else. He’s quite happy here, with his bird perched on top of him.

Jaskier’s cheeks are flushed with colour. He’s wholly focused on luring more strips of Geralt’s skin out for him to touch and palm, uncaring that Eskel is nearby. One last lingering kiss to pressed to the ridge of his jaw before Jaskier’s eyes wander. The glass surrounding the booth isn’t enough to block their view out on to the main floor of the bar, but the bar itself is dark and heaving with people, and he doubts that people would even think of glancing over this way; knowing what kind of company likes to keep to these kinds of rooms.

Geralt looks out on to the crowd, eyes falling on Jaskier’s earlier dance-partner. His voice is nothing more than a rumbling, coming from the inner vaults of his chest. “Who’s that?”

“Hmm?” Jaskier perks up, craning his neck to look into the crowd. His eyes eventually land back on a red-haired woman lingering by the bar, waiting for drinks. “Oh. That’s Shani. She’s training to be a doctor in Oxenfurt.”

At that, Geralt’s brow lifts. “Is she?” he hums. Oxenfurt is one of the most renowned universities in the boroughs. The wealthier bosses in the districts send their children there to study. And he knows of how steeply the college can charge for students and their courses.

Jaskier’s fingers fidget and play with the open neck of his button-up, slowly luring more buttons open. He manages a few, letting more of Geralt’s chest be on display for him to look at and play with. But Geralt catches his hand before he can be rendered completely shirtless. He lifts Jaskier’s hand to his mouth, kissing the man’s knuckles. Musky hues of cologne wisp against his nose. When Jaskier manages to lure him on a night out, he tends to make an event of it. A fitted shirt that clings to the lines of his body, but with the first few buttons undone, and his usual gold chain dipping down into his chest. A tight-fitting pair of jeans that Geralt adores, just because Jaskier’s ass looks amazing in them.

Jaskier sighs, making peace with the fact that his chartering of Geralt’s body will just have to be put on hold for a moment. Geralt plays with his fingers, twirling and locking them together. Soft, whiskey-lilted lips press over every ring that adorns Jaskier’s fingers. Newer ones that Geralt hasn’t seen yet. He doesn’t keep track of the man’s wardrobe, considering how much time and money he likes to spend adding to and changing it. But he adores Jaskier’s fingers, and when they’re adorned and jewelled like this, he pays them the kind of worship they deserve.

Jaskier loosens a measured breath; something eerily resembling a sigh. He’s not quite with it, his little bird. Geralt glances up. “What’s on your mind?” he hums, holding the man close to him.

Lips thinned and pressed into a tight line, Jaskier mumbles. “I’ve known Shani for years,” he explains, looking everywhere else but at Geralt. “She’s talented. She’ll make a great doctor. She patched me up plenty of times after jobs went to shit. But Oxenfurt is expensive and she’s worried about money and...” Jaskier trails off.

Poor little bird. He’s not one to care much about others, unless they’ve found some way to etch themselves a nook inside of his heart. Geralt has found a home in there, nestled deeper than anyone else. But looking at him now, Geralt watches something blink over his lark’s face – something that slips through every so often when he’s walls start cracking.

Geralt’s other hand settles on Jaskier’s hip. “How much?”

“Too much.” Oxenfurt doesn’t produce the finest of graduates by just letting anyone in. Jaskier can attest to that. He just managed to stumble by with the gold he had, and he’s spent every year since then trying to clamber back. Nowadays it’s easier. Geralt’s funds are his, and he has his own accounts locked securely away somewhere. Just in case.

Geralt hums, pressing a lingering kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “If she’s struggling,” he murmurs, letting his lips dance across the line of Jaskier’s cheekbone and ghost the shell of his ear, “tell her that I’ll handle it.

When Jaskier turns to look at him, it’s with widened eyes and a slightly opened mouth. Geralt’s funds are Jaskier’s. He knows how nimble-fingered his little lark can be with gold. Geralt’s wallet has a tendency to go missing quite a lot these days. But this is something else. Jaskier reaches up, brushing the back of his fingers along Geralt’s cheek. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs, leaning down and catching Geralt’s lips in his. The kiss is sweet and lures a rumbling hum out of Geralt’s throat.

They part after a moment, Jaskier setting their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he lulls, letting his hand drift down Geralt’s chest. His can feel his heart beating beneath his palm, every swell of breath that enters his lungs. His skin is warm and holds the familiar scent of _him_. With every breath Jaskier draws, his scent coats the roof of his mouth and it’s intoxicating, enough to get drunk off of.

Geralt’s pupils bloom. The same effect presumably washing over him too, threatening to drag him under and drown.

* * *

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Are you sure you won’t dance with me?” he lilts, rolling his hips against Geralt’s. He can feel the man tense slightly underneath him. The hand on his hip firms, somewhat guiding each gentle, teasing rock and grind.

Geralt’s lips part. The shared breath hovering between them is warm and scented with both of them, and the light scent of whiskey and whatever sweet thing Jaskier has been drinking. Words perch on his tongue. He draws in a breath, ready to loosen them when—

Jagged flecks of glass rain over them, a shrill cry from someone within the main bar ringing out. Geralt’s arm tightens around Jaskier almost instinctively, huddling him close. The window behind them is shattered.

Jaskier blinks. His breath is caught in his through as he tries to gather what just happened. His arms curl around Geralt’s shoulders, and he uses his body weight to roll them both onto the floor. There’s some bit of cover from the couch. Just enough time for both of them to try and get their bearings back.

Jaskier’s chest heaves. It’s a struggle to pull in steady breaths. _Calm down_. The familiar mantra returns to him, chanting over and over again in his brain. He’s so used to being in control. He kills on contracts _he_ orchestrates. Being caught off guard is something sour and cold.

Senses slowly come back to him. Even through the slight ringing in his ears, he can hear shouting and screaming. It’s one mass of noise, grating on his ear. And then there’s Geralt gathered close to him. Jaskier leans back, setting his hands to Geralt’s face.

He blinks. The tips of his fingers are wet and stained red.

Blood. One of them is bleeding.

Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt’s. The other man looks back at him, realisation slowly dawning. Geralt draws in a breath and a sudden, sharp wince twists his face.

Jaskier looks down at the small sliver of space between them. Blood blooms, staining the right side of Geralt’s chest.

No. _No. No. **No**_ **.**

The world falls away. Eskel scrambles to cover, gun already firmly set in his hand and loaded. He cranes his head, golden eyes piercing as he tries to sort out the heaving swell of people beginning to panic and scramble. Distantly, through the rush of blood through Jaskier’s ears, he can faintly hear Eskel shouting out to Lambert and Coën. The wolves scramble into action.

The couch is just high enough to cover him, even when he slips out of Geralt’s grasp. He lowers the man gently on to the ground, ignoring the way his firm fingers try to catch and grab on to his shirt. “It’s alright,” Jaskier mumbles. If it’s to himself or Geralt, he isn’t quite sure. But once the first words are out, a flood rushes. “Let me see. You’ll be okay. Gently does it, there you go.”

He works quickly. Nimble, sure fingers – still stained red – deftly undo Geralt’s button-up shirt, spread it out so he can look over the expanse of his chest. There, on his right pectoral, a bullet hole. Blood oozes out, though it’s not pulsing or spurting. But enough of Geralt’s chest is starting to turn wet and red, and Jaskier reaches up, grabbing Geralt’s blazer and balling it up tight. “Listen to me,” Jaskier says firmly, looking straight into his eyes. They’re starting to hood and glaze over, but Jaskier leans down, making sure that he’s something solid for Geralt to try and focus on. “You’ll be okay. We’re getting out of here.”

Something catches the corner of Jaskier’s eye. A thin pool of blood slowly wetting the floorboards. Geralt’s skin starts to pale.

A short curse rips through him. “Eskel!” he shouts out through the cacophony of noise. Golden eyes meet his. Words fly out of him without thinking, his throat beginning to clamp down and rasp. “We need to go!”

Eskel clears himself to move before he darts over to Jaskier’s side, crouching down to loop an arm underneath Geralt’s shoulders. “Alright, alright,” he murmurs, free hand firmly clutching his gun, and other supporting Geralt. It’s a combined effort between Eskel and Jaskier, trying to pull Geralt up from the floor, make sure they’re covered from any crossfire, and keeps pressure on the wound on Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier blinks. He cranes his neck, looking to the man’s back. A bloom of red staining his shirt there too. Entry and exit wounds. The bullet isn’t in him. That’s something, but gods only know what it could have hit on its way through him. Geralt is a heavy weight, even with both of them hauling him through the hallways and out the back of the bar.

When they turn the last hallway, a shrill call comes through the shouting of everyone else around him. “Jaskier!” Shani’s voice cuts through. 

Eskel’s eyes narrow and focus, his gun already lifting. Shani stops dead in her tracks, eyes widening and her hands immediately held up.

“No! No,” Jaskier scrambles, reaching out and catching Eskel’s wrist. “She’s a friend!”

Their car waits out in the alleyway. That’s a general rule. Sometimes they want to leave without anyone else knowing. Other times the car is for Geralt and Jaskier when hands have already started to wander and kisses grow deeper and filthier. Now, it’s a lifeline. They all stumble out on to the alley, Coën already out there wrenching the backdoor open. “In, in!” he crows, keeping an eye on the alleyway. Out on the main streets, patrons from the bar scatter out on to the streets.

Jaskier slips into the car first, helping guide Geralt in and out along the long stretch of seats in the back. Shani quickly follows, with Eskel bundling in last.

A pair of nimble hands joins his. “Jaskier,” Shani’s voice muffles beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Shani crawling behind Geralt, setting her hands on to his back to scope out the wound. “Jaskier, here, let me.” Jaskier tempers the bleeding from Geralt’s chest, and Shani looks over his back. Someone, Eskel maybe, hands her a jacket from someone else, and she presses it firmly against Geralt’s wound. The harsh pressure wrenches a tight groan out of Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, dipping his head in some attempt to try and get Geralt to look at him. His golden eyes have dulled slightly as his skin pales. Coën has already jolted the car from the alleyway, veering out on to the main streets and barrelling them towards a hospital. Jaskier frees one of his hands, setting it against Geralt’s cheek. “You’re okay. You’re with me, aren’t you? I’m here.”

A shadow of a smile dusts Geralt’s face, trying to tug the corners of his lips up. It’s not what he’s used to. When Geralt smiles, it’s bright and dazzling. And he can almost feel Geralt slowly slipping away from him. All he can do is keep pressure against the wound, hoping that Coën can navigate the streets of the city well enough to get them to a hospital.

He leans down, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against the other man’s. “There you go, that’s it. In and out.”

Over his shoulder, Jaskier watches Shani’s brows knit together as she adjusts her hold on his wound. Something brief blinks across her face, but she quickly pulls a shroud back over it. And Jaskier’s stomach drops. He’s known Shani long enough to know that she can never keep her thoughts to herself. They always bleed through.

And Jaskier hopes that, somehow, Coën could drive that bit faster.

* * *

Jaskier’s words are as measured as he can keep them. “Do you know who did it?”

Eskel grunts. “Leo Bonhart.” The name comes out through a growl. Jaskier doesn’t even have to turn and look at the man to know Eskel’s face is pinched and twisted into a scowl. His blood is boiling, like the rest of them. Jaskier can feel it in himself too. The tightness in his chest and the jittering of his fingers.

But he keeps himself calm. Fury won’t help him now. He looks out on to the white, clean bed in front of him – at the body lain within it, hooked up to monitors and IV lines. Jaskier doesn’t even blink. He keeps watch over his Wolf, keeping count of every breath he takes, every beat of his heart that registers on the monitor on the other side of the bed. Jaskier draws in a steady breath. “What do we know about him?”

The room Nenneke bundled them into is one of the nicer rooms. It’s white and clean and smells like disinfectant. He hasn’t had many encounters with Nenneke, but he does know that she’s paid well by the Wolves alive and able to hold their own. Eskel stands by the door, leaning back against the wall while another Wolf Jaskier doesn’t even know the name of takes guard outside.

He can only imagine what they all look like. Blood specks stain all of them in some way. Jaskier more so than the others. He was there, in Geralt’s arms, when someone shot him. A bullet that ripped straight through him and barely clipped Jaskier’s arm. He can still feel the heat from the graze. It earned him a small gauze bandage while Geralt earned _this_ ; lain out on a hospital bed, hooked up to more machines Jaskier can keep track of. _It could have been worse_ , was what Nenneke told them. The bullet, somehow, gods be good, didn’t hit or knick anything important. Straight through. But she was worried about the amount of blood lost on their journey here.

“Lambert ran him down,” Eskel replies, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s a bounty hunter. We don’t know who hired him, or if this was just his own work. He has a habit of not keeping contractors for very long.”

 _Burying tracks_. It’s a well-known tactic, brought in to keep hired killers safe. Jaskier has had the unfortunate chance to cut short his contracts with a few people. And it’s never taken any skin off of his back.

Eskel takes a measured breath. “Lambert and Coën are in Ban Ard,” he murmurs, as if talking too loudly would wake the man in the bed. “They’re waiting on an order.”

 _Fucking Wolves_ , Jaskier can’t help but think. Always deferring to the next in line for what to do. Geralt can’t certainly give an order. Jaskier leans forward, wincing at the slight dig of the hard plastic chair into the back of his thighs. Geralt sleeps. Geralt sleeps because Nenneke put him in an induced coma. _It’s for his own_ good, she murmured, already hooking her syringe of drugs up to his IV and preparing to intubate him. And Jaskier understands. He’ll heal better while sleeping. And if he weren’t lured down and held in a forced sleep, Geralt would already be trying to fight his way outside, furious and trying to figure out who the fuck shot him.

That’s why Jaskier is here. He’ll figure it out. Geralt is so still, and it’s something he can’t get over. He reaches out, fingers pink and stained. He sets a hand on to Geralt’s bare chest; mostly wrapped in white, clean bandages and the buds of monitors. He barely flinches when Jaskier’s hand settles on him.

He’s loath to leave. His eyes haven’t ventured far from Geralt’s prone body, his rising chest and the beeping monitor on to the other side of his bed. In the first few moments of them being left alone, when Nenneke shepherded her nurses and doctors out with a firm glare and curt order, Jaskier’s throat closed in on itself.

He _knows_. He knows what their work entails. Someone is going to get hurt, and someone else is going to be killed. Not everyone can quit the game and walk away like Vesemir did, turning his back on the boroughs and not even getting a dagger into it. But this was stupid. It shouldn’t have happened. He’s not going to blame anyone in Geralt’s house. No one within their home is to blame. Even thinking of Leo Bonhart sets his blood on fire.

Jaskier stands. One of his hands is still curled into Geralt’s prone one, fingers loose and lame. Jaskier’s grip on him tightens. _I’ll be back_. He tries to press the promise in through the man’s skin and muscle, hoping that even drugged and sleeping, he’ll hear it. Jaskier draws in a steady breath, leaning down and pressing a long, lingering kiss on to Geralt’s forehead. He’s still warm. And Jaskier’s eyes sting with that realisation. He’s warm and his chest lifts with every quiet breath he takes. He’s still alive. No one has taken Geralt away from him.

Turning around, he meets Eskel’s eyes. He wears the same shadowing expression that has settled on all of them. A member of the pack has a deer caught by the throat, and it waiting for the rest of them to come.

Jaskier squares his shoulders. “Covis, Gweld, and Aubry stay here,” he says firmly. “The rest of you come with me."

Something glints in Eskel’s eyes. The smallest hint of a smirk ghosts his lips. The ranks shouldn’t fall down to him. He’s sure he isn’t even on the hierarchy at all, considering he’s not technically a Wolf. But Geralt holds his little bird in such high regard, it doesn’t surprise him when Eskel bows his head down, accepting the order without even blinking.

* * *

The warehouse in Ban Ard is as well hidden as the rest of their locations dotted throughout the boroughs. Old, crumbling buildings that no one would look twice at, kept to the outskirts of the cities where the streetlights dim and start to flicker. Jaskier shrouds himself; his face blank and eyes clear. He might have his own way of luring information out of clients in the past, but this is different. Someone tried to take his Wolf away from him. His fingers curl and nails press into his palms.

Eskel leads them into the warehouse. Jaskier keeps himself behind the pack, waiting for the toll of what Leo Bonhart has brought on himself to take effect.

And by the muffled grunts and wheezing breaths, Jaskier can only assume the others within the pack have already had their claws and teeth at him. _Good_.

The warehouse floor stretches out, but within the middle of it is a single, rickety wooden chair, with a man perched on it. Leo Bonhart is a well-built man, but ageing; scars marring whatever skin Jaskier can see, and fading, muddied tattoos covering the rest of it. A single fluorescent light from the rafters overhead bears down on him and the two other wolves prowling around him.

Lambert gets one last punch in – one that snaps Leo’s head to the side and almost throws him off of the chair completely – before he notices the rest of the pack prowling in. He backs off, slinking just out of the reach of the light.

Leo’s eyes crack open and blink as he fights to see past all of the wolves. A crooked smile stretches across his lips when his gaze falls on to Jaskier.

“The Wolf’s little bird,” Leo chuckles to himself. His shoulders shake with it. But Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the thin stream of blood and spit hanging from his mouth, reaching for the floor. He doesn’t even have to look at Lambert or Coën to know one, or both, of them have reddened knuckles and burst skin. Jaskier sighs. He’s just annoyed he didn’t get the first hit in. No matter. He has all the time in the world. A cough retches through Leo’s body. “Now this is a treat. To what do I owe the pleasure of the Shrike visiting me?”

He’s aware of eyes on him. The Wolves know that he has every right to be here. Most, if not all of them, might have even expected it – Jaskier to be the first one through the door, sleeves already rolled up and ready to cave Leo Bonhart’s face in. What Lambert and Eskel watch is how slow and deliberate the bird’s movements are. He clicks his fingers and another chair is handed to him. He takes his time dragging it over, propping it just in front of Leo.

Coën stalks behind Bonhart, eyes locked on to the back of the man’s head and burning and scalding skin. Jaskier sits, nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt’s cuffs and rolling the fabric up to his elbows. He gives a quick nod to Coën. A simple order.

The man’s arm coils around Bonhart’s neck, tight and unyielding, and pulls him back flush against Coën’s body.

There’s a fight. Even battered and bloodied already, and with his hands and legs already secured to the arms and legs of the chair, Leo squirms and fights. His face turns a garish red colour when Coën’s arm tightens around his throat, air starting to thin.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Not too tight, Coën,” he says softly, knowing how his words seem to echo through the warehouse. “Don’t ruin the fun. We can take out time with this one.”

Coën’s arm slackens, if only just a bit. He still holds on, because Jaskier wants to see the man. He wants to see all of him and commit him to memory. He’ll be unrecognisable by the time the Wolves are done ripping into him.

A dry laugh croaks out of the man’s throat. “You better kill me quick, Shrike,” Leo grunts, a wince twisting his face when his head is wrangled back. A long throat is open for Jaskier. And his fingers twitch. Leo gathers his breath. “Fly back to be by your Wolf’s side. Who knows how long he’ll last with you all here.”

Jaskier’s brow knits. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the assassin sitting prone in front of him. Everything in his mouth is hot and sour. His tongue earns a few barbs. Too many ideas of what to do with their guest blink in front of him, and all of them are as alluring as the last.

Even trapped as he is, Leo lets out a rumbling laugh. “I’m not the only one interested in a few Wolf pelts, boy,” he grunts, wincing as Coën’s arm tightens around him. “And you’re not going to get anything out of me. So you best start flushing the rats out of your boroughs. You’ll be infested soon enough.”

He’s heard it all before. The thinly veiled threats made at death’s door. A rat will turn and bite your neck if it knows it’s been cornered. Jaskier muses over Leo’s words.

Without taking his eyes off of the rat, Jaskier speaks. “I don’t like his beard.”

And Leo blinks. Confusion has barely settled on to his face before Lambert stalks out of the shadows, dagger in hand. Coën tilts Leo’s body back just enough for Lambert to be able to grab the longest threads of the man’s beard in one hand, yank it tight, and slice his knife through it. If he happens to knick some skin on the man’s chin, he doesn’t seem particularly bothered.

Leo winces, but he does a fine job of holding back a groan of pain. Lambert doesn’t go too far away, but his blade falls to his side. He glances over his shoulder, eyes catching Jaskier’s.

Waiting.

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “His hair, too,” he says simply, folding his arms. “It’s awfully long.”

Lambert snaps into action. The rest of the Wolves linger in the shadows, arms folded and feet firmly rooted to the ground. They won’t move unless Jaskier says so. A silent agreement between all of them that if Geralt can’t be here, then Jaskier can take his podium.

Jaskier cranes his head to watch. Lambert does an admirable job. Clumps of hair tumble to the floor, with beads of blood dropping with it. When he steps away, cleaning his soiled blade on Leo’s blood speckled jeans.

The red-haired wolf looks at him again. Jaskier waves his hand. “Thank you, darling,” he says, watching Lambert slink back into the shadows with the rest of the pack. He sits back in his chair, getting a good look at the man prone in front of him. Leo tries to gather back what he can of his breath; something made all the more difficult with Coën’s arm around him, and the angle in which he’s pulled back against the chair.

Jaskier picks at an old scab on his hand, idly waiting for Leo’s breath to slacken back to normal so he can _listen_ to what Jaskier has to say. “I can keep you here as long as I like,” he muses, finally says, letting his words ring out within the warehouse. “I won’t have you killed tonight, even though everything in me wants to put a bullet in your head right now. I’m sure there is a nugget of information buried in there somewhere. It’s just a question of how to wrench it out of you.”

Coën watches him from over Leo’s shoulder. Waiting. Hanging on whatever comes out of his lips to act on it.

The arch of Jaskier’s lip lifts in a small snarl. “I could keep you here for days, weeks, months,” he growls. “I could leave you in the Hertch Mountains, naked and without food or water, alone. Or I could leave you here, with a few of my Wolves to keep you company.” Jaskier reaches under his chair, moving forward with it. The legs scrape and whine against the hard concrete ground, and Leo winces. The sharp glare of the light overhead must be getting to him. He gets closer, only because Coën has a firm, solid grip on the man. And Jaskier wants to make sure that a rat has found itself in the Wolf’s den, and there isn’t a chance in all of the hells that he’ll be able to scamper back out again. “The point of this is, you’re _mine_ to do with as I please. All of these men hang off my word. Whatever I tell them to do, they’ll do without question. And when Geralt wakes up, I’m sure he’ll like to have his own go at you too. So maybe we’ll keep you around until then, hmm?”

His blade sears his side. He would love to take the man’s life for himself. Returning to his wolf with stained hands, but with the blood of someone else on them; he entertains the idea for a moment before agreeing that he never wants to see an inch of Leo Bonhart ever again.

Jaskier looks around, regarding each pair of eyes that meets his. He eventually settles on a handful of Wolves. “Varin, Tjold, Sorel. Enjoy yourselves,” he says airily, standing from his chair. “The rest of you will wait your turn.” He takes one last look at Leo. “If there’s anything left of him. When you _are_ done though, scattered whatever’s left in the Gwenllech River.”

* * *

When Geralt blinks awake, sighing at the distinct smell of antiseptic stinging his nostrils, the first thing he notices is how quiet the room is. Monitors beep beside him, counting his heartbeat, and the sounds from the city are muffled through the windows and walls. Glowing streaks of light from streetlamps stretch in through the darkened room, but he can still make out his bed, his blanketed body, and a familiar lark slumped by his side.

He isn’t alone. Jaskier is here with him, and Geralt’s chest rumbles at the sight of it. But someone else too. Nenneke is by his other side, wiping a cloth around his mouth. His throat is sore and dry. She reaches for a plastic cup of water, setting it by his lips. “Slowly,” she whispers. She’s treated everyone within his house – when his house was Vesemir’s. He’s sure that he treated him too, responsible for the constellation of healed-over scars and puncture wounds littering the elder’s body. She’s well-versed in dealing with wounded wolves.

He doesn’t try to talk. He already knows he was intubated. The slow pull of drugs within his veins and muscles keep him sunk into his hospital bed. The slow cooling sip of water slipping down his throat is enough to temper the worst of the sting in his throat, but he still coughs and winces.

Nenneke clicks her tongue. “I should just start wrapping you boys in bubble wrap,” she murmurs, a soft frown pulling on her brow. Vesemir and all of his wolves have stripped years from the poor woman’s life. She’s already old enough to retire – but if she leaves, Geralt would have to find a new contact in a good hospital to keep quiet whenever a wounded wolf is brought in.

Geralt manages to catch her hand when it drifts down to check on his cannula, squeezing it as firmly as he can manage. _Thank you_.

The message gets through. She rolls her eyes. “Silly boy,” she sighs. Her eyes drift over to the other side of the bed. Jaskier sleeps soundly, all but slumped on the side of the bed, with his hand entangled in one of Geralt’s. A small rumble crawls up Geralt’s throat. Nenneke’s brow lifts. “You’ve found yourself a good one there,” she approves, winking. “Wouldn’t leave your side.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow.

Nenneke huffs a quiet laugh. “Well, he did storm out of here with a few of your boys. Came back an hour later looking much calmer.”

Geralt snorts. He can only imagine what his little lark has been up to.

Nenneke leaves once she’s happy that his heart isn’t going to give out and that he’s breathing is okay enough to keep him off of a mask or nasal cannula. The moment the door clicks shut, Jaskier muffles a quiet noise into the soft hospital bedding beneath him. Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. He musters enough energy to squeeze his hand around Jaskier’s, slowly luring the man awake.

And Jaskier bolts up, hair askew and eyes bleary. “You’re,” he stammers, quickly looking at Geralt and the machines attached to him. Something settling in them that tells him Geralt is very much alive and awake and with him.

Jaskier stumbles out of his chair, leaning forward and catching Geralt’s lips in a kiss. They’re dry and cracked, but neither of them cares. Jaskier moans into the kiss, setting a hand on to Geralt’s cheek and dusting his thumb over the man’s stubbled jaw. Gods, how long has he been asleep? How long has Jaskier been slumped here, watching over him? He doesn’t even want to guess.

When they break away, Geralt lures one last pecking kiss out of Jaskier. A brilliantly soft smile breaks over the man’s lips. “I missed you,” he murmurs, perching on the edge of the bed.

Geralt hums. Words won’t be able to comfortably clamber out of him for a while, but he presses his forehead against Jaskier. Warmth blooms through where they touch, worming into his skin and bones. It settles his heart and his breathing. Every breath he takes has the scent of both of them, and Geralt can feel himself sinking back into the bed.

Jaskier tightens his grip on his hand. “Never leave me,” he rumbles, gripping on to Geralt with all he has. “You’re not allowed to. I’ll be so fucking annoyed at you if you ever try.”

Geralt smiles. His little lark is a possessive thing. Geralt hums, squeezing Jaskier’s hand. A simple promise that he isn’t going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I have added this fic to a series where I'm going to write more for this world and verse because I love it so much, but some pairings/tags/things could get added that people may not want to see (or you do, and I vibe with that ;D). If you would like to continue to go on the adventures of Boss!Geralt and Assassin!Jaskier, keep an eye out for more fics added to the series!
> 
> I did not expect this fic to get this popular, but here we are lol

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter:  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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